The Dichotomy

Take them not to the doors of truth,

That fiendish devil,

Who rides high on the back of a burly black horse,

Whose fiery eyes stalks you

From beneath a dark hood that covers his ugly face,

And who flashes in his grisly hands,

A long sword with deadly spikes.

He knows not what tenderness be,

For he sees a corpse buried

In the womb of every mother,

And evanescence in the love of every brother.

And when he strikes at you,

He knows no mercy to cut you smooth,

But drives his deadly sword in,

And as the blade cuts through your flesh,

The stubborn spikes snap one by one,

Every nerve of yours,

And as you swoon in pain and

Slowly close your drooling eyes,

You see a fiendish grin of teeth on that dark face.

The doors to Illusion though,

Bear no such wrath,

For they lead you to a convivial land,

Where a charming Prince slips

Through the lines of a folklore song,

And rides towards you on his white steed with grace,

His silky golden hair flowing in the soft breeze.

An alluring smile adding glint to his smooth face.

Therein also dwells the beautiful Princess,

Who has gently stepped out

Of the pages of a fairy tale,

Whose big, beautiful eyes is damp with kindness

And who knows not a cruel word to say,

And when the fair angel stoops over you

And runs through your locks, her frail nimble fingers,

You feel gently placed on a spongy cloud

And carried through a carnival of stars

On the streets of a deep blue sky.

Lead them then, to the doors of illusion, my friend

For at the gates of truth lies that fiendish devil,

Who strikes at you and strikes you so hard,

That you fail to discern happiness anymore,

That you can, no more, feign the

Ignorance of an obvious reality

For all the colours of illusion pale into oblivion

At the fury of a black that spews the truth.