For truth is found in perfect, measured rhyme:
The dance between the mystery and clue,
The hint of infinite contained in time.
Philosophy is true if it is said
In words of simple honesty which ring
With cosmic shimmers, and the truth is dead
If language must obscure idea from thing.
Plato’s only truth was poetry;
Wittgenstein was eaten up by words.
From birth, we drift amidst the language sea
And clutch at thoughts as rafts in the absurd.
The simplest truth confounds Sophistic scam:
To stand in rhyme before the great I Am.
The Consolations of Writing 