Movement VII: The Labyrinth of the Lie
Sonnet XXXI: The Threshold of the Twisted Tongue
He crossed the lintel of the Leaden Gate,Where carved chimeras spoke in double-speak,A place of heavy and duplicitous weight,Where every timber gave a hollow squeak.The air was pungent, sulfurous and bleak,Distilled from breath of every broken vow,A sanctuary for the false and weak,Who wear a mask upon a sweating brow."I enter here," he swore, "to disallow,The sovereignty of the distorted sound,To find the root of Why and Where and How,The serpent entered this celestial ground."The stairs dissolved beneath his steady pace,Into a spiral of forgotten space.
Sonnet XXXII: The Gallery of Gilded Gaps
He walked through halls of mirrors made of smoke,Where every image was a curated thief,A pageantry that like a fever broke,Against the rocks of his adamant belief.Here stood the statues of a false relief,Of promises that withered in the hand,The cold quintessence of a wordless grief,That drifted like the desert’s shifting sand.The architecture was a cunning strand,Of euphemism and of grand deceit,A labyrinth that by a ghost was planned,To lead the seeker into sure defeat.But the King saw the void behind the wall,Where shadows of the great pretenders fall.
Sonnet XXXIII: The Minotaur of Misdirection
A beast approached him with a velvet tread,A creature woven out of "Maybe" and "If,"With horns of coral and a lion’s head,Whose every movement was a subtle cliff.Its voice was like a low and fragrant sniff,Of night-blooming jasmine on a poisoned breeze,It offered him a lethal hieroglyph,To grant his weary spirit sudden ease."Why seek the truth," it hissed, "when pleasantries,Can drape the world in a more gentle hue?Come, rest beneath these simulated trees,And bid the harshness of the light adieu."The King struck out with a monosyllable,A "No" that was entirely infallible.
Sonnet XXXIV: The Cavern of the First Fallacy
In the deepest gut of the granite gloom,He found the furnace of the Primal Lie,A cold and suffocating, lightless room,Where honesty was brought to starve and die.He saw the forge whereon the "Small-White-Why"Was beaten into "Great-and-Terrible-Wait,"A place where every clear and open sky,Was hammered into shields of iron hate.The soot of sophistry began to grate,Against his lungs and in his stinging eyes,As he beheld the dark and heavy state,Of all the world’s accumulated lies.The anvil was a slab of frozen fear,Where truth was never permitted to appear.The King has captured the Seed of Deception.
Sonnet XXXV: The Discovery of the False Radical
There, in the center of the smoking pit,He saw a letter that he did not write,A jagged rune that was obscenely lit,By a flickering and sickly-yellow light.It was the "Self," the ego's parasite,That claimed a kingdom where it had no throne,The dark usurper of the cosmic sight,That turned the living spirit into stone.It was a seed that had been secretly sown,Between the lines of his original script,A virus that had vigorously grown,Within the silence of the holy crypt.He reached his hand into the burning flame,To seize the ghost of that unholy name
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