A peninsula of imaginary proportions,
where the lighthouse keeper
disposes of his predisposed notions.
Open to interpretation, the land is not for her --
That sardonic Being of Truth,
making mockery of the False Devil.
Bearing that twin-pang teeth,
she scoffs at he who revels;
the joy and bliss of that sanguine adventure,
where no compass and telescope can guide
him through the rumble of the ocean, he is sure --
O Truth, you throw rubble to justify
the being of your existence.
Within the confines of these lines,
you bear no soul in mine,
Perish, for you do not lie here hence!
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