The truth is love and it is beauty though
It disperses us like rats, even when
The truth-teller dresses it in the most
Refractive threads. The arctic winds come in
To manage us, as calmness becomes coldness,
To shake off, in the eyes of beholders,
When the coping mechanisms regress,
The second-hand treachery like soldiers,
Which is only the sincere desire
To connect, find friends among liars
Waving goodbye, escaping them finally.
It's the season of mental illness, when
Truth can no longer be held back again.
The ways of man and God are a mystery.
