Both the truth and its liars are hidden
And will not come forth to speak unbidden
By necessity’s will or convenience,
Unless called for by fakery of sense.
Only at the bottom of a dry well —
Half way, the easy half, from here to Hell —
Where nakedness — dear Truth — shivers and sighs,
Does Emptiness stitch gorgeous clothes of lies.
He emerges to strut in his glory.
Every sentence he spouts is a story.
His opposite, her body cleansed at least,
Climbs out to the reception of a beast.
They beat and rape her, drag her by her hair,
Throw her back into the well, her dark lair.
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