Who ever tells the third side of the story,
That witness account that’s never really perceived?
Without even a voice to state the lies poorly,
Or a mechanism to believe that we ever disagreed,
There was me and what I was long ago told,
Together with a wisdom watered down by exploits,
And there was you, with what you will keep until you old,
More than a passionate faith that punctuated your points,
I saw, you heard, but did either one of us really feel,
Anything beyond that singular first-person basin,
Something pulling our insides outside of our real,
To expose the epitomes that we were both chasing?