( * \EP-uh-gohn\, noun:
An inferior imitator, especially of some distinguished writer, artist, musician, or philosopher )
Put these tears to bed,
each grand, eloquent, emptiness;
god has fallen from the tumbling sky,
and the moon is but a wind tonight.
The dead, seeing no difference,
have nothing to say; no compass to guide,
and night, without children,
pools in the disinterest of shadow.
Put these clocks to censure;
hope is but the friendly shout of youth;
how she passed my notice without notice
and fades; a gentle lighthouse sweep;
my heart, the fractious shore.
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belonging to one of many a School of Thought
one merely seconds the notion...
Notion...notioN...
NotioN -- echoes from a chasm
of mirrors which neither casts
an accurate image or sounds
quite the same.
if deemed a Perfect Soul --
by the imperfect souls --
one could create a new
School of Thought among the Remainders
and become another grain of sand
along the shore of the ocean of Communication
and Understanding which crests and flutters
with a god bitten amplitude.
(to appease the Machiavellian and atheist
with the idea of "god" before "bitten amplitude,"
one substitutes the notion with "limit" or "limitlessness.")
it goes on in a cycle to say
that communication
can either choose words for meaning
something -- limit --
or choose silence for meaning
everything -- limitlessness.
this the Epigone decides
where to lie among or over contradictions.