Quenchable Wisdom

Layers of truth unravel with time. Tears of regret await those who demand not to stay another night. Does honesty smell of home? Of fresh bread baking? Of apple pies on the windowsill? Of the echo of a child’s laughter? Or is it blinded by the stench of burnt compromise that stings the eyes, chokes the throat, and burdens the heart?

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

021503

Chester Delagneau


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