A glittered breath of perfume awakens
few manifestations reverent
of tell-tale tries, of erasēd vows
Cry aversion without avail,
for a thought alive cannot feed on concept alone
nor a concept survive when cracked between past
And to mind cometh a longing of forgotten words
of forlorn faces
when slivers of white gold in the windows of souls
retain but some clarity under their polished sheen
And they blink, and they snarl, and they whisper:
“This is the truth, the only truth.”
Then truth, says I, is but a lie
and I tell you this:
I wish to know no lies,

I will see from no eyes than from one gilded bright.