PHILOSOPHY'S OLD MOON
I will be as endless as I thought I would be: ever and more.
Reading ancient tomes in the ancient language spit, behind
flickering candles of lights and shadows. Things move, and
I know that. Celestial caverns ignite with spark and fire, and I
am there, amidst them. The shimmering forms upon the wall,
as in Plato's cave - I watch their movements and sense their
actions, too fixated to dwell on judging and yet too judgemental
to watch. Abstruse as all these words are, so too is the Philosophy
of the Gods: she who answers with some wounded pride,
perhaps feigning, perhaps not. Some hidden deceit I'd never
assume. I hear the sounds of a lark or a falcon, or a robin
or a wren. Alas, I do not know such natural noises. They
rim my earlobes with doubt and anxiety, portending something,
shaking my mind. The natural world, enough here to frighten me,
stands steady in its prime fixture upon all that is real.
We know this, and we know that. Nothing more there is.
I will be as endless as I thought I would be: ever and more.
Reading ancient tomes in the ancient language spit, behind
flickering candles of lights and shadows. Things move, and
I know that. Celestial caverns ignite with spark and fire, and I
am there, amidst them. The shimmering forms upon the wall,
as in Plato's cave - I watch their movements and sense their
actions, too fixated to dwell on judging and yet too judgemental
to watch. Abstruse as all these words are, so too is the Philosophy
of the Gods: she who answers with some wounded pride,
perhaps feigning, perhaps not. Some hidden deceit I'd never
assume. I hear the sounds of a lark or a falcon, or a robin
or a wren. Alas, I do not know such natural noises. They
rim my earlobes with doubt and anxiety, portending something,
shaking my mind. The natural world, enough here to frighten me,
stands steady in its prime fixture upon all that is real.
We know this, and we know that. Nothing more there is.
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