Since time, the Talk of Man
Ponders and bewilders the
Essence of the Talkers;
They're plastered to thought, creative
Reasoning of the unknown for a
Meaning to fill our celestial void,
I too work the mind in pretzels
Of confusion and circular despair, only
To arrive before the beginning,
So, Thought and Talk have their golden
Thrones high upon society's mind, but
The Doer, the Fool, who sings life and
Dances reality has this Game in slight command
Banished and badgered by the masses,
(who falsely fumble through this world),
Give mirror-like, reflective disapproval
To the Fool –the Doer of pure action
Far submerged in damp corners, lightless
And cold, musty men and wretched women
Ponder and bewilder still the Talk of Man
Over the faint taps and cordial chords
Of the humble Fool
LIVING
Ages away in the sweet morning grass
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"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." —Henry David Thoreau
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