Closing In On Truth

The distillation of a thought, how like the science of a touch— to brush aside the pretense, scope within the lake of memory and know that still intact is all the passion there submerged, genuine, for all the years unknown. How rare! That light may penetrate the depths of false despair, that history may reappear and flash its insight once again upon the yellowed obfuscation of a consciousness worn clear of hope, a blindness self-imposed and born of ennui and pride. Then from the waves, Excalibur, and from concentric heritage a triumph—to the lady evermore, a mystery surrounding her, past the eternity of men who then must yield it back again, drawn underneath the surface of the mind of God. ~