On the Genuine.

Only liars have an obsession with

Being believed, that goes double for faiths,
Religions and creeds. The truthful have no
Such need to prove themselves, their words and actions
Having been spontaneous. The genuine
Never questions, not of itself nor of
Others, neither does it expect anything,
Its harmony being unconsidered.
Leave worry to the falsely spirited,
“Do you believe me? Why donʼt you believe me?”
Against reason proof is felt to justify.
Leave it to the genuine to assert
Itself of its own accord, proof isnʼt even
Considered. Twice well for all religion,
The insecurity of needing to be
Believed, followed worshipped and always
Spoken up, eternally their desperate
Justifications mounting. Yet on we go
Towards the genuine. Which needs not
Of such necessity, it never asks
Of these striving others, nor expects
Aught in return. Little by little
A liar will construct, a whole world from
His justifications Mythologies
Spring up from once where a reason “why” had
Sufficed. A lie direly needs another
To support it, until it is raised
Upon a mighty pedestal, here began
The need for all “truths” along with their “proofs”
Equally well thought up. The genuine
Goes about unaware, unconcerned.
Far from those proclamations of “truths”,
If asked, it would consider its position
Absurd, needing to have to prove itself.
“What wanteth thee of me? Why such striving
In circles? An epic ellipse thou hast
Created, Iʼll grant! But what wanteth thee
Of me?” Pedestals are fine things, of that
There is no doubt, but what is that up there?
At the summit? So far out of our sight?
So difficult to see, hardly made out,
All that much the better, it seemeth thou
Oh so high above, thy smallness merely
Distance. Farsightedness makes of the eye,
A poor device with which to perceive,
Accustomed to naught but squinting into
The distance! That which up closer appears,
Passed by, taken for granted. Who even
Notices that which is always seen, yet
Dressed in fine golden robes hath never been?