Trident

At the bar of justice stood an outright lie,
            but could it be any real?—the presider asked.
            If it wasn’t, the message unsent would not
            have crossed against what seeps.
It stuck: the habit, the sweet dirge of a cold June sweeps;
            it lingered, like that gambit we
            shook our pieces into. A travesty—a tragedy, it
            looked as odd as a wooden face, carved by
            children’s hands in the dead of night,
            in the brooding eyes of a newborn sun.
You and I unfazed in this moment,
            the brutal honesty binds the link among.
If strength is a unit of measure, no scale
            would sit evenly—even with all the
            pleasures provided by mortal capacities,
            as the phase of black believed.
For amid all these masks stood—
                        this—an outright truth
                                    and the serpents basked
                                    in lament of its glory;
            either you choose to unsee, (But could it be
            any real? Yes, it tasked. If it wasn’t,
            light would’ve been the most daunting
            of all our fears.),
or at the bar of solstice, you choose to live,
            only to lie again, and dine to vie again.