In ripened time I found her, and she was as the fragrance of joy.
But the shouts of a thousand vagabond soldiers broke the mystic rapture,
And I found myself staring Reality squarely in the eye again.
Boring, spiteful Reality, whose nature has no humor, and little kindness,
And though she is quite closely related, yet her name is not Truth.
Quite often, in fact it is she that Truth must overcome with that power of an age yet to come.
Should one know this, and not be acqauinted with both they should surely be tricked my their phantom cousin: Delusion.
And yet I roiled me about the lower swills of oil, churning and clinging, fierce and thick as congealed blood.
“Where is the place I dream, and my discomfort has sheared the soul with the venomous fangs of spiders?”
There my mind was split asunder seeking the one of two worlds which has yet to know my name, for the first despised and scorned it, and I am in the bowels of eternity.
A lyric made of meaning yet thrown as chicken-scratches at the earth; my life an absract message shouted in the depths of a cave with no echo.
When the mind is siezed a thousand turmoils but none of them matter, an erupting volcano seared the earth and made thick the crust to ne’er be shattered. And this hardened ground is sought to be farmed?
At the outset we cry, and at noon our parched throat seeks a drink. Do you water her furrows? Not if you find not that which quenches.
Streams of acid in the wilderness burn over that place which once was a jungle; the simple see, but the wise are unheeding.
In the midst of these our eyes cock themselves to the sky, and our ears tune to the unheard, for only here is solace to be found. In the invisible, and in the silent is the Image to be seen, and the Voice to be heard; when all about is death, and the eye drinks but tornemt – while he ear speaks of wailing – heed you not.
Hear the Silent, behold he Invisible. For faith is the substance of things not seen.