Once a spectacle upheld,
In lies,
Deceit,
Of truth,
Unknown is this,
Save that presented it.

Lingering there,
And not quite known,
There the mind wanders,
And returns throughout the day's passage.

A brief moment of repose,
As one may say,
But nothing can sway it,
Not from the mind thinking.

It toils laboriously,
Still failing to ever meet the final objective,
Attempts,
Tried hastily over,
And over.

Here,
Now,
What's said?

And to this,
Remains there no answer,
Although it was so harshly tried,
Does it deserve its reply?

Some fare the answer cold,
But changed not are the minds,
Holding within them some,
Antiquated desire to appease.

Ever so slightly does it,
Impose itself upon the ideologies,
Of those enduring,
That a truth remains unfound.

Smoldering in those burning,
Torrents of the smoke,
Here is,
In finality found.

It creates that passage,
Of so often forgotten a time,
In which things appearerd,
In the light of a different mirror.

Staring forward into it,
An image striking the one peering,
Is a benign,
Yet utterly unidentifiable figure.

It is them hence,
As is said to be the truth,
But that reflection contradicts,
This so easily perceived truth.

Was there yet confusion,
Drawn in by the passage of time,
And answers repressed,
As though it was mere a foe?

But beating within is a passion,
Something so deep and powerful,
It is taken for the archaic cruelty,
And not as the blessing it was.

Drawn in the sand,
A line which can,
So easily be swept away,
There is a lesson.

The illusions,
The things which pervade,
A mind far too brilliant,
To have been considered as truth.

There is the hand of fate,
Enduring there somewhere,
In the folds of these cruelties,
Yet unrevealed to your eyes they are.

Unreceived of your glory,
For the world it is within,
Only by the action,
Of its own inhabitants.

The foul beasts which,
Had passed their judgment down,
Will find the errors,
If only when they face those flames.

But even in a world of darkness,
Which has coated the air so vividly,
In the past,
Which has been seen,
And it still exists.

Not a thing,
Even this,
Can douse the light,
Of the coming knowledge within you.

Faith,
Will it to be known,
Will free the bonds,
Of that oppression.

A thing which has been diseased,
An inveterate line drawn into,
The things of others,
Not having been known.

Shall it not come to pass,
And one day,
The hopes thought ridiculous once,
Will not be so false as you condemn them.

For time,
Our ever present ally,
Will never yield to this hatred,
And with its aid,
A victory shall be attained.