A truce is certain even though its
Ruse has foundered,
But sure things are cut out that way;
Truth curtsies among the many
Blind wills of error, their shadow
still borne by a light beyond perfection.
A candor’s gaze alone is remote
To attention, for the message
Requires a universal inference
Whose intention wavers, the universe
Is indeed every singular object within.
The repeated pattern has no
Regular theme, only the offices
Of a wrung compliance, whose
Compliment is a memory
Like birth, the throbbing
Reproduction of will
Whose value swells the honor.
