the quarrels

There are so many truths in the world
So they tell me
One like the other, pure
And in person, healthy

I think, however, that it’s true
The word means nothing
How the present crowds peruse
The huff and puffing 

So self-fulfilling prophecies
Are never meager
Post-modernism’s wounded side
Black and beleaguered

This doesn’t mean truth will revive
To the contrary
Sides merely have more sharp divides
Instead of airy

Like recent days of yore, we now
Are told of morals
Of course each thinks ‘I’m stoutly right.’
So live the quarrels.