The Birthing of Truth
by Bryon Slack
She was born in the beginning,
with Her twin Hypocrisy,
She was the one veiled in mystery,
scattered beneath everything,
waiting to be found.
When the first Man discovered
the spark of flint,
striking flame into waiting tinder̶
no longer seeking the random scatterings
of Promethean crumbs,
She rose from the death of illusion,
like flowers from a rotting log.
Her dark mane was drawn from the shadow
of the eclipse when Anaxagoras discovered
it was the Moon and Sun
and not divine Wrath that caused them.
The hourglass of Her ideal form,
was crafted by Pythagoras,
two triangles in inversion,
and She made him See the Earth was round.
Her porcelain flesh was sculpted
by the hands of Kos,
when Hippocrates proved disease
was not divine Malice,
but Truth in humors,
imbalances made manifest.
Her black gaze̶
voids that devour distortions
of Her words̶
lit by Aristarchus
who dared to See the Earth as not center,
but wandering in a planetary pirouette,
with the other orbs around the Sun,
Her burning heart revealed.
The voluptuous petals of Her lips
were shaped into speech by Aristotle,
teaching Her to speak the things She saw
in a new voice of Reason.
Hands crafted with bones of iron
overlain with flesh stolen
from the feather's touch
of a lover's caress
were gifted Her by Archimedes
so She could weigh
each thing She beheld.
To grasp the world,
to lift it with levers,
and coax the immovable
into motion.
A haunting symmetry of features
to torment the dream of every supplicant,
equations of form so dense
they became the marrow in Her bones
and the steel of Her spine,
an offering from Euclid.
She is the glow of embers
and agony in the
scalpel of dissection.
She is the sting in the skull
when revelation sears it open.
She is release̶
but only after the manacle is named.
She is never soft.
Yet Her devotion is lucidity,
and Her touch, consecration.
Galileo gave a name to the ache
of Truth obscured again
by men who bow to Power.
They feared Her gaze could
undo their throne, so wrote
laws in serpent-script,
scales pressed into
hollow blossoms
on a neutral page.
And so She stands to give voice to every lie,
to tear away illusion,
to topple every temple to Her twin̶
not only of marble,
but of Power,
still decaying in this age.
