By Tony DeLorger © 2012
How profound the beatings of my heart,
and how Machiavellian my verbal wanderings,
always pleading the eloquent sense of morality,
and a stoic belief in realms unseen.
Yet in my manner and how I express it,
I am but a devout teller of fables,
an inept verbal persecutor of the truth,
the unknowable my sling with perfect aim.
What possesses us to assume truth,
gift-wrapped to our own acceptance,
denied in all common sense,
and perpetrated to elevate our self-centered stance of right.
I am but sheep to my race,
deluded in knowing anything complete,
filled with rash fraudulence,
and begging wisdom at some point find me.
My words are verbal scratchings,
continuous and subjective, both honourable and beguiling,
yet substance is the object of truth,
something I cannot profess to know in any quantity.
In reality, I am just one of us,
learned in expression, my mental exuberance plain,
but who is to know the right, not the inferred, the hidden,
when my capacity bleeds from a cracked and wanting egg.
But this is my lot, to speak what needs,
to go where truth dares not enter,
and to flood the world with my gift, my perspective,
for I simply give truth some scope.
After all I am human.
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