Words are ghosted bowmen, the haunters of the heart,
conscripts of the learning tower, its stepped degrees
twisted, bruised by failed tides of forbidden fruit.
Their tendrils constrict all life to functional form,
diluting echoes of meaning, strands of decay.
Apexed eye skips its lancing quest across the greyed,
perchance unveiling position or ambition,
the enlightened ignorance of its foundation.
The Rose remains pierced, beaten, besting the glancing
blows until the bowmen and arrows become sticks,
the confused tower falls and all that will remain
slow poling cadence, drawing souls into the shade.
This blog will contain my thoughts and articles on:
- History
- Mind
- Myths
- Science
- Technology
- TEOTWAWKI
Entries that have been added to/edited will be redated and moved to the top.