My Projection

Like a gloss of paint on a dirt stained house
Is the reference I see before mine eyes.
Like rusted armor, shell of argument,
Is the trust you place in what I despise.
But beneath the gloss the dirt still remains,
Without much hope of removal at all.
And beneath the armor lies your flesh, the stains
Projected by the rust; and so you fall.
Without mass one cannot move his own bulk,
One cannot find a groove without design
That preexists his thought, just as the hulk
Who does place all his trust in clear cut lines;
For science is clear, cut out like a mold,
But still we do fear what truths it doth hold.

            My Projection, (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012