An Ode to a Story Untold
Free-Form Poetry About Existence, History, and Existentialism
An Ode to a Story Untold
In a time, immemorial, and a place outside the sphere of time itself, lie the forgotten origins of lost beginnings still etched into the void. A place not by definition, for that is a mere mortal term. A time that is before time was conceptualized. Nothingness, but not as we know it, quivers and writhes formlessly.
Many philosophers have attempted even a quaint preface to the greater unknown, and yet, even they know but a sliver of the whole. A fraction of a margin greater than human contemplation has fathomed in multiple millennia. Myriads have seen slight glimpses into these deepest truths, many have fallen with their teachings into the grave leaving humanity bereft of its secrets. There are many names, a plethora of religious teachings that hint at this grand reality yet most fall prey to the illusion that is dictated by those who were to be termed the cabal.
A funny thing it is to be lost amidst a sea of unforgiving answers titled “Disinformation, propaganda, and fallacy.” An effect coined Lucifer where truth is stigmatized and lies glorified, dictated, and sold like a commodity for a consumerist world. Where has the Morning Star gone? Yet, Venus is the planet of love.
Still, this all-pervasive, ever-invasive thought of “The More” looms over our heads like a shadow cast by a great monolith. This monolith a statute to the great illusion of ego we climb and call home within the warm embrace of its walls. “This is safety! This is bliss!” we cry outward as if the vibration emanating from the depths of our weak lungs makes it manifest.
A division wall set in place separating the chaff from the wheat served up on a gold and diamond-lined plate for the feast of the globalist elite. Ah, but poetry is a mere emotional expression and the fringe merely pseudoscience. The grain burns risings up skyward with the scent of despair pleasing to those fattening themselves on misfortune through confusion and chaos. The strong are broken and cast away, the weak loyal sheep to the hungry shepherd.
Blood tells a story greater than time itself. Etched into the earth in vain by blood of a more ancient lineage. So it has been, so it will be. And like an infection there is a fever working to purify this sickness that has been rightfully named “disillusion”. The heart is the mediator between the head and the hands, pumping as a vessel that gives motion to a new age reflecting upon the old, timeless, immemorial.
What has been will be. And so, history repeats in redundancy always forgetting who it was before in repetition of the same mistakes only remembered by the scars etched by that same blood in the earth underneath our very feet.
A grand diabolical joke of cosmic proportions. We must learn to laugh like the devil in our own knowing in the face of others unknowing. As a wise agnostic would say, “I do not know, but that is OK, laugh anyway” in regard to the greater puzzle as he holds only his piece. For those who admit arrogance are humble, and those who praise their humility are arrogant.
Enlightenment leads to benightedness, science entails nescience.
Yet, even in reading this you are ever more curious of the place that is not a place in a time that is outside time. And I would not say that I am wrong in believing this. So stay inquisitive, and keep questioning until the synchronicity of it all topples that monolith abolishing the old, giving way to the new.