Interlude: Truth

by Mike Allen

The truth, some claim, has a portrait of its own
riddled through the Cosmic Sphere's black shell
that admits its deep blue light,
refraction of an unseen power.
The fey pestilence who in this layer of what can be
hold sway in forest mounds and mountain hearts
claim these pinpricks of azure
are not stars, but tunnels outside time,
the heads of the trails they followed, that ended here.
Yet what shape do these mysteries take in this sky?
Some claim a lyre, longing for fingers
to coax songs of grief and war.
Some claim a balance, its empty scale
fed human hearts found wanting.
Some claim a veil, which hides a face
that aches for our regard, its beauty
sure to blind all beholders.

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