Flame Sword Forged

 There is not a single thing,
for which truth is on its surface
quickly apprehended and easily seen.

It is always hidden deep within,
or folded infinitely inside.

It is a painful process to bring it out.
Progress circular, 
before spiraling up.

It is an act 
which somehow seems
to simultaneously be
in alignment and against
the entirety of life itself.

Why?
Look around.
Life itself is a lie.
Every presentation of an infinite multiplicity,
is but a fractal hall of mirrors,
a chorus of visual echoes:
built from past, present, and a mix of real and imagined anticipations.

The "real" is somehow that which deeply disgusts us,
and is also that which our soul seeks.

For it is the truth, and the truth is destructive.
It is of a greater compassion,
with no space
no time
 for sentimentality.