Manufactured Illusion

The transparent lies, well meaning so to obscure
the obvious truth. The traces hidden well
but so as to be eventually discovered.
I realise their actions years later. The factual masked
by a wire mesh of invention, mine and their own;
fantasies glued to produce custom.

Opposite concepts addressed, history versus the fictional.
Reverie meets tradition and merges to one. To produce what?
So thinly veiled from the mind, the desperation to believe
overcomes verity. Old loved sentimental convention prevails,
serving only national propaganda, pushed by profits and
marketing:
we are the customers hounded to believe.

But the children don't believe. No-one truly believes. The realisation
of
truth never happens. It is always reduced to a mere unstable
moment,
the aftermath conspicuous by it's absence. Regardless, the
charade
continues. From start to end: Blyton to Orwell, Blind Mice to
Purple Haze. We pass it on to our children gladly; seeing their
confusion
we realise the ageless Judas.