What hand guides one who,
Knowing well a fact,
Will reason against reality
Forcing himself the hurtful truth to doubt
Are all men frail?
Or is it only I
Whose lips are sealed to words my mind will say
And hesitates the truth to shout about?
Is it all men who,
When they like me
Are being deceived with certainty,
Pretend they’re not and rule this out ?
If it is so, then why ?
Do we find happiness in escape,
Contentment in self deception,
Beauty in avoiding ugliness ?
Is truth a lie ?
If I cannot live with truth,
‘Twere better that I die
Oft’ has it been said,
Let not the heart the mind deceive.
Has mine ? I often pry.
Mayhap ‘tis right
The fighting spark of truth to try to quench;
Yet I feel caged, as in a mortared trench;
For surely truth must win
As life slips by !