The Quest for Truth ( a poem)
The question of truth...however jaded or to be maligned,
The subject of renowned sages and the weak of mind.
All proof, never seems enough to more than just a few,
Despite the evidence to support all of the things we do.
Were we to be born of the hand of an almighty God,
Formed from the reddened dust of this earthen sod?
Evolved from the essence of a spontaneous source,
Could all be an accident, results of a universal force?
Truth, always evasive and the questionable old mystery,
Hiding from all who pursue it, and down through history.
As if to proclaim the reach, beyond our humanly grasps,
Prompts us to search it, onward, our tomorrow's gasps.
As for every truth whose worth may indeed be made,
Incessant naysayers and those who choose to shade.
No matter of the eye's sight, or heard, of its fine sound,
More possibilities to always persist, as doubts abound.
Beauty is in the beholder's eye, like a lovely serenade,
Shapes and colors, as magic, to run its length, are played.
Our mind's eye receives the joyful vision, as in virtual bliss,
Accepting and resolving all our questions without remiss.
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