That Which Is Entirely Truth? Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

The
chaste
the meek
those proud
and all the fools
in each and all there
rests the proper tools
unbeknownst, or simply
misconstrued, or in intentions
left fallow, and soon to extrude
from hand through mind, and oft not
of compassion's trends; an obviousness of
darkness deft and sly, unmoved of all friendships
passions, or the great of light and ruled by the depths
of that other thing inside; all tomorrows…
What of this, in an instance rued; a street, or shriek
or sheik of old, bold, consciousness, at ill ease, in
unrest, listening to whispering djinns and to whom
knows what else, within; everyone has, within
everyone lives, within; everyone lives in
silence owned, that is not shared, or
spread upon the winds, that may
transcend any action's urge…
Thoughts of which often surge
through the shadows we befriend
as pleasant nuance to each happiness
earned; forward then, with both arms reach
and with freshly loaded rounds; through depth
of what is seen as grime, or thoroughly clear and
clean of mind, toward want or wish or intended gist
as each step is more so made in its inceptions within
every one's Thane; composed, compressed, seldom to
be expressed, a battle drawn across the stars, replete in
myth, and learn, and from, a living's experiences strained
through each moment's breath, exhausting or combusting
into, some physical action, any reaction, of exclusion, an
illusion so confusing to the illuminations of that which is
soon to be, coming through the light…
An instance exemplified by the subtle change one
feels when stepping from the bright of noon, into
the shadows under an overhang's edge; in just
that one half step, you soon regain a cool, and
lose the energy of a faraway light; frightening
in this exemplified simplicity, it is truly so, as
this, when dealing in the schemes played by
such energies; compromise is no reasoning
with that from the dark and backside of the
living coin which contains two sides…
Intrigue enters into the touch, in torch too
in building an unfired pyre; an imaged glimpse
into further more perhaps, as that collage, when
dressed, that paints in expressions, desires, and whims
or is unconsciously transmitted in the winds from a source
that is empirically veiled, yielding both to one's gasp and to
one's ask, either muddling and middling or questing and
revealing truth and or lie…
In return to what thought which ‘proper' spews of Muse
amused, by one's mind perplexed or, bruised from any
thoughts beyond ‘belles' and or ‘balls'; with chuckling
jest my pause recalls such; intent upon confusion and
retrospect, and delusion cast, as one big messy
confusion upon the inner workings within the
matter, which is the ‘mine'; either seeded in
deception or clearly laden throughout all its
fines; of solids, and nuggets, and weight…
Fate, would have such a pleasant day
dancing upon the crusts of either way
this in that or that upon this or this
that; that this daze; is ‘unbeknownst'
a lovely term, archaic, mostly unusable
and surely not the consciousness to tweet!
But, most often proved of all matters roused by
the each, and every one of US, who refuse to stop
and calmly reflect, before we so rudely speak or write
or pontificate out our defecations before the world or
further still, out to the entire universe! And then that
leaves ‘misconstrued' often as the first for least or last
considered thought during any compassionate thinking
or, heated discussion wrought between competitive
minds closed completely to any ‘Gentlemanly', or
the other, ‘Gentlewomanly' compromise; on any
issue! Proper, unbeknownst, misconstrued
and then; that tie-in to intentions…
What then, for those chaste, those meek
those so proud, and those so sorely fooled?
And of those few not? Making no mistakes
taking no haste, leaving no wasted thoughts
unturned, who yearns for that found within
the hot `blue', of the most intense flames…
Within the thought of an entire species lost
in its learned ignorance, in the continuing of
its happenstance, of the wayward thoughts
of self-gain, and insolent waste; of every
moment spent in a lifetime gifted before
conception, as currently we are consistently
brewing in this lifetime's cesspool, which
we consider sane, save those few whose
gifts reveal that which is entirely truth…