The Twisted Babbles of the Hidden Truths

Christopher D. Eldridge © 1997

Confusion runs rampant in the neural circuits of life, a traveling message ever-changing, never stable as it seeks to find the answers to its troubling fable.

Tranquil thoughts turn to maddened cries in a changing soul that often lies, which seeks the truth, which hides its eyes, which beckons to the omniscient skies.

The never-ending glass of sand, that enemy to all upon the land, the thing which refuses to give that which makes it greatest to live.

So much it can choose. So little to lose. But then what can it be, what is its fate, what if it chooses its answers too late?

Does it miss out when it doesn’t act true, if it ignores, or if it forgets? Or is it worse to follow desire, to jump in the heat and burn in the fire?

The heat of it all can complete what was meant to be, or break apart what will never be; but to deny the cry within the whole can kill the soul, can leave a hole, can leave a burnt-out blackened coal, which once burned bright, that sought to strive to keep its only dream alive; but now it’s dead, for fear and doubt have brought its dread.

A settling sadness for second’s best has set to seek the same self, even though it sought to search for something special; but some strange sense seems to sing the song of the similar spirit which sits the salve upon the sore that suffers the shortage of sweet sentiment.

But then one day it is blessed by a taste of greatness, but greatness is never great for long for the guarantee of greatness is only as great as the one who gives the gift of greatness.

And so it soon begins to crumble, and its perfection melts away as the blanket of blindness is peeled from the picture that was meant to be forever perfect.

When Muddled clouds of thumbled thoughts that think the thoughts it shouldn’t think become the tips of the tired tree, then it’s true that the time that’s turned the bitter thought is nothing more than the thimble that thwarts the needle’s mark.

A prick, a poke, a gentle anecdote that calls to the warm waters of the murky moat, cannot break the still silent note.

It’s true you say it makes no sense but below he confusion is the simple sense that no one wants to hear because simple doesn’t make any sense.

So you see, the truth behind us all is a cloak, a coat, a cap, a plastic nap, which hides the skin that can’t be seen for all of us are sleeping in a crummy dream; yet deep within is the force that rules, that breaks the mold, that brings the only gold, that makes us more, that makes us whole, which leads to every bit of fun, and makes us more like the only One.

The truth dawned with an illegal taste; the fun started the core to ideate, which soon began to ruminate, which sparked a fantasy that become reality that led to the dream that’s soon to be, in which all will know eventually.

But you destroy the greatest thing that’s been given, because you think . . . well you do not think, for thinking is a thought of the past, but nonetheless you do not care, for your ignorance, stupidity and foolishness; but it will be proven by the one who babbles of the truths, who dares to speak, who dares to seek the means to rule above the meek.

Then it will be just like the One with everything within its grasp, and then the thoughts of the distant past will be nothing more than stepping stones before the mind that thinks the greatest thoughts.

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