Abruptly Drawn Out

Left to ponder admist the panderers
Whether or not
All of our truths are fallacies
In the tempestuous sea
That cascades upon our little tides
And woe is the poet
For his truth is conditional
And conspired
And orchestrated through display
Of truthful fallacies
So
I may ask myself
Was the pliable digression
As accused
A morgage payment
With a forged mark?
But I can only conlude
That I recognize my signature
And that a better query
Is that of my own hand
And it's discreet wanderings
If it had done it's own bit of orchestration
Upon the pad of another's easel..
Also to discern
That it's quite humorous
Upon which focus has been constructed
That a common refrain
Echoes through out all that is said
And was a past tense conclusion
But it can be said
The brightest will fall a little dimmer
Merely silly is all
And as I pander with the panderers
It's all a bewilder state
Perhaps with tepid constraint
With shy shadows of the truth
That are only fallacies with defintions
Whispering noisily
Like the murmering stammer of static on your television
No certainty, no certainty
A bleak and discouraging chant
And as a woed poet
It is certain that words are only floats in a parade
But it is all that the poet knows
And cages him hence
Not a desparing beast
For future holds new molds
And casts
And shattering them as well
But the handprints always stay
Leaving it's own little lingering stare
Watching everything in nothing
Encasing the one truth of history
And the images only eyes can behold
And so
Apruptly drawn out
Things will unfold