White-washed perceptions of the spectrum of meaning
like an old man prodigy relegated to cleaning
limping and shuffling, held anointed by the mantle of the past
all those old attachment’s playing tricks and asking questions
a hard day of laboring along the blue-metal path of traveling.
We stop for a tick, on the wrinkled old lying hand of youth
an old idea that is just an arrogant blot, a misstep
on the way to the long dirty broken track to wisdom
wisdom is not wasted upon youth, it is born in youths journey
to lose itself in abandonment of its self indulgent fantasy.
A riddle it is that wisdom is most unwise
intelligence a mere mutation of the logical eye
a logical thought, a pragmatic delusion
makes sense in the moment, destroys the eternal idea
when will the soul learn of it’s own children
those of creation, those who do not fear
who reach for the supposedly impossible and never what’s near
pushing away all that blindly hinders and deafens the ear
We shall wipe away the white-wash of your perfect tears
“What happened?”, you will ask, of your beloved fears
“Where did you lead us?”, of your blinded ideals
When we, the free, lead you, to your own appeals.
Speciation of your thoughts
causing an irreversible diversion of spirit
and an in-breeding of convenience
leading to an exclusion of your original souls
from an intimacy of diversity
sprouting random branches of seclusiveness
reaching out to the nothingness of emptiness.
…..and all along the way
it was so simple while you possessed the day
to have looked before you leaped
and to have dream t while you were not asleep.