Truth is a lie of the waking hours.
Our senses crave the incense of desire;
The waft from the censer’s neurotic pendulations,
Fanning the smolders of obscuratum,
As if hypnotic enchantment by the golden sphere
That dangles from velveteened fingertips by a glistered chain
Is a pensive act of transfiguration.
Far too enticing is drinking deep
That coalescing plume of the Djinn of Wishes;
Freed by the deliquescence of truth’s bitter myrrh,
Noxious, frank incensing fuel that brightly burns
In lamps we simply could wet and tip upon the ground,
And fill with elixirs of wondrous fancies and “ought to be’s”
To thus mold our universe as we please.
Dreams are the only truth man can know.
For nightmares are not made of what we choose.
Morpheus howls at the soul in victory—
Cindered globes its Undefeated Sun.
For he is the keeper of the truth we burn away,
And he offers no quarter to thieves who know they must face the night.
So we watch as Nyx empties out the ashes.