An ode to matter-of-fact

This is an ode to matter of fact, in fact,
a poem like evidentiary stone and stat.

For one plus one is two, not three,
nor four or five, not twelve, indeed.
Yet, far from mathematic postulations
a soft and chewy sap awaits you.

A fact — In core of belly it sits and stays
your course along a rocky plain or
maybe through clear, already trodden path
your feet, no matter, will eat their grass.

And if along the way that path does stray,
your course, with force of will,
shall tumble trees and shatter shale.
What makes this “matter of fact” is inner still

“It is what is”, a need, a must,
a “way it goes.” It thrusts
from nock to tip, the target knows.
Your life in sight, to loose, is right.

Some may ask “what is”, “what might”
You disregard their shallow sight.
Can light escape universal grip?
Do elk or emu fret and flick?

I am what I am, no ands ifs or buts.
I do what I do, no quips or bumps.
Like one and one is two not fifteen
I do what I do, matter of fact, I’m me.

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