By deeds alone are we known.
The knowing is one thing
And walking the path
A more terrible, yet more ethereal reality
To go inwards is to ascend
In layers difficult to see
Only perceive when they are over
In the social language spread by words
Image and sound, intent and action
The major Forms within us
Many duty bound to approximate ineffable feeling
Or send us to quite another place
Beyond the artist’s conception
A dozen victories along a crooked path
That may lead to unity is dissent
But still a path wandering
And heralding perfection by its passage.
Higher and higher
Until we have left ourselves in our transit.
By J.W.H. Hobbs
Do you like the content? Consider a donation.