When you’ve plowed up a furrow of doubt, dropped the seeds
of distress and despair in my spirit,
I’ll wager you’re proud of the fine crop of weeds
you have sown, daring peace to come near it.
Then you slink in the shadows, applauding your plot
as the proof of your own co-existence:
Illusion made manifest, wholeness forgot
while I struggle with human subsistence.
If my only device was a temporal mind,
then each falsehood might grow unrefuted,
but steeped in eternity, reaching behind
your disguise, it’s a snap to uproot it.