Picked pen.

I pick up the penning again in these times.
Who knows what dreams will rear crystal crowns?
Who dares deem sinistral down.
Paramount profound…
Yet naught but a searching…
A seeking…
A birthing…
A reaching.
Into in time…
Momentous capture or apprehension rather of fluctuating ideal…
Patterns break against the stones some label chaos.
It is in the beginning.
It is now.
It is ever.
We fear it and flee into fabricated certainties.
“Just please don’t make me see that which perturbs…
that which would truly free and make subject to full responsibility.”
Full disclosure would close.
Some have bought what has been sold to leaders as remedy for rebellion.
Some have caught emotional contagion and called the movement spirit.
Not that I contend that it is or isn’t
But unaware of what works, we wholeheartedly wage half-truth based wars.
War of the minds equals war of the worlds.
It is an alien idea until it sinks in for a few generations.
Usurped positions within selves.
Those that sell have too much say.
Their assumptive closes shut young minds.
He who seeks first loses.
I have deeper bruises.
The aching for acres just to acquire and accrue big talk.
Maybe I hastily cast these lines.
Maybe I’m wrong.
I have certainly wronged myself on many occasions.
Who has not?
The inconvenient truths rankle.
I’m no longer of use.
Thank you.
I return to serving essential purpose.
Priceless value.

Errol Percival Jr.

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