What makes men to murder Truth?

Surely for some, the answer is obvious:
For love of the Lie.
For perpetuation of fantasy, of ego, of obsession
Inspires insanity, rivalry in all.

To embrace the Lie
We spurn Truth, that faithful, pure-hearted lover
That steadfast enigma
That poets, musicians and philosophers
and prophets have bled and clamored for.

In the rarest of cases, however,
Lone, solitary figures 
Speakers of Reality

Are slain

neither by repentance
Nor rejection
But rebellion for rebellion's sake.

Scapegoats, all.

The wisdom of the crowd?
Or the frenzy of the mob?

O, angel of light
You see the starkness of reality
The creation out of chaos
The story unraveled 
The tormented romance of
A broken, tear-stained Beloved

For thousands of years
we have yearned for eyes to see
And hearts to understand
In myths unfathomable
And telescopes floating in outer space
And flawed analogies of Light (waves, particles and the like)
To grasp infinity
Reconciling the expanse above
With the abyss within 

Yet, you, fallen from heaven and
seeing Beauty
You mutilate her
Softly, seductively
With all malice 
You, the father of lies
Herald of chaos, harbinger of death
Become the annihilator of Truth

To what end?

Nil.  Zed.  Zero.

And I hear the cries from round the world
Joining the flood of the martyrs
As saints and monks 
And children watch their cities burn
and their lives ripped away

Not for passionate love of the Lie
But for clear, calculated rebellion against
and hatred of the
Truth.