Quenchable Wisdom

Layers of reality unravel with time. Tears of regret await those who demand not to stay another night. Does honesty smell of Home of fresh bread baking in the oven, apple pies on the windowsill, or the echo of a child’s prayer playing ping-pong in the hall? Or is it blinded by the stench of burnt compromise that stings the eyes, chokes the throat, and burdens the heart of gravity?

Disbelief crawls into our beds and spoons us as we sleep unless we drink daily from the spotless Cup. The sage for centuries has drunk her quenchable wisdom and slept soundly. The mad man litters his biases of poetic justice into our souls petitioning to perceive a vanquished horizon of nihilism that awakens us from our theistic slumber wondering the genesis of untruth.

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Chester Delagneau


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