Loquacious people love to spill
Plump secrets they’re too vain to keep.  
To tell tremendous news can reap
Friends whom novelty alone can thrill.  
The truth is common property,
And independently abides,
While forgettings are all pseudocides,
And neglectful parents can’t agree.  
Whoever lies confers a gift
Devising falsehoods just for you.  
Facts thrive where thistles never grew.  
Don’t give what anyone can lift.  
In legend consumed bread regrows
To feed a nation from one loaf.  
Truths regenerate, so any oaf
Can pluck a common, banal rose.  
Truth-tellers safely can forget,
Because some checking resupplies.
Not so with lonely, fragile lies,
Whoever lies must ever fret.  
Glib, easy tongues who scatter facts
Have given every anyone
A tale regifted they’ve not spun.  
Lies are what imagining enacts.  
The stringent claim that facts are few
While falsehoods sprout in multitudes
But where the robust truth intrudes
Mendacity’s scorched residue.  
The truth is a replenished ore
Dug from an open, shallow mine.  
Lies are a moon-grown eglantine
Or stories from a private lore.  
Facts are devalued minted lead,
Coins of a debased currency,
But lies are golden filigree
Which melts wherever sunlight’s spread.

In my copy of J. M. Cohen's translation of Michel de Montaigne's Essays
Cohen wrote in the introduction: "Montaigne accepted a double truth; the sphere of faith and the sphere of reason were to him entirely separate."

If I were to describe my own double truth, of reason and faith,
I think my sphere of faith is surely placed within the sphere of reason.


Like a torus of Reason and Faith:
Though I can rationally navigate my way to reach the membrane of my faith
What is truly hidden within is still ever beyond reason.

Perhaps through this relentless search of truth, and the piercing gravity of love,
I can one day breach and reach
The nucleus of this ring or Circle
That is Perfectly spaceless
And
Timeless