Adrift again in my own thoughts
Well heeled hyperbole
Twisting the bark
Off the tree
Of truth
In search of the beetles
That gnaw at my epidermal
Inklings of self grandeur
Smothering the flame
That floats the balloon effortlessly
Into the clouds of misconception
Leaving me tightly stretched
Across the shell of the great drum
Limited to the percussive nattering
Of my own channeled perceptions
Controlled by the weirs and filters
That direct and sift what is heard
Not the truth per se
But the diluted processed
Delicate
Remnants
That only parchment can reveal
Copyright 2011 Patrick Granfors
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Anna
you set yourself loose and free.
John
I guess the truth waits patiently as we work through our own diversions. Great writing, Patrick~!
Peace,
Dayvid
That is the way of the matrix, Patrick. At least I'm pretty sure that's what my friend Sha'Tara would say. I am sure many can relate to what you express via your verses here. Thank you. Love and peace to you,
Regis
By the way, in your last little song, I forgot to mention that you should record it and post it so that we can hum along to the nonsense it was meant to convey.
Ron
But I think many let others do all their thinking today.