19 August '16
The philosophy of men is flawed by the tangibles of weakness. To say to do, is profound in corruptness. I’m assured in confusion, sanctified in the truth of derision, and I quantify my existence, rather than qualify my subsistence.
The truth of quantification is buried in the minutia of qualities beyond our imaginations. To seek is to be.
Serendipitous monologues of the character of mothballs elude transposition. Moral triumphs are a spec of colored sand. It’s not my accomplished reason, it’s my awkward dance along the trellis that marks my solace.
I continue to condense morality Into a prism of shadows, not away from trepidation, but to the quick of matters not shallow in any share of respect. For a chasm of insight waits to the shoeless soldier, but I must wander in bewilderment amidst the enemies of true peace – knowledge and foresight.
The road to redemption is cast in the doubt of wearied travelers winding their way through the desolation of hopes and desires scattered to the wind.
The warmth of a cool breeze can provide the dispirited soul with a reason to strive for substance.
We watch galaxies collide with indifference, but react with screams when confronted with minor impositions.
To see the smile of a mocking bird is to hear the rush of a river in search of freedom.
And the sociominority of reptilian faith flag down the ingots at the Cross, on the way to Columbia. The station master yields the oath, and frees the surface, open to the grave. But I see the triangle of sisters, and reach no boundary. I’m vague, in disrepute, almost a changeling.
The burning of the bush can transfix us all with it’s calm endurance, but we as spectators sensing the anguish and the joy of its engulfment can also come to know the extreme lightness and darkness of our hearts. This is true revelation.