Socrates, Don't Drink That Tea
All of a sudden god gave me material to write with. I think he's taunting me. Anyway, here you are, fresh off the word processor.
When a man sat down to search his soul, he knew not where to look. He was not in tune with himself. He might never be. But he began the search at once. He started in the head of his, for it was the closest to the top. Far from simplest, deepest of diving. He kept going and going. His trip led him thru the annals of his mind. Finally out the other side, none-the-wiser. The traversing to his heart string, to pluck it for some thoughts. The roving man amongst his own canvas. Strolling the curves of his arteries and into the never seen emotional monstrosity that lies within. The soul remains elusive but desired. All that lies in his gambit of feeling allows nothing in aid for his search. Man he is, inside and out. But the one part that makes him supposedly above all animals is not present. Or so it seems. When this man rises in defeat, thoroughly tired and retreats from his insides, the soul will resume its post as commanding officer of his entire bodily army. Once in hiding, so as to keep the reign from its host, now overwhelmingly present. The day man meets his soul is the day he dies. There is no going back to the sort of partnership man has with his own soul after he devises the souls devious and long-stemmed control. The soul, destine to surpass us in our earthly form. First in creation, above death. Man was never destined to rule this world. We were destined to carry the rulers within us.
Inspired by the story of the cave, but not really about Plato's very wonderful allegory for human existence. Okay, I'll be back soon with my poem-narrative. That's right, a rhyming narrative. I know, I'm excited too!
When a man sat down to search his soul, he knew not where to look. He was not in tune with himself. He might never be. But he began the search at once. He started in the head of his, for it was the closest to the top. Far from simplest, deepest of diving. He kept going and going. His trip led him thru the annals of his mind. Finally out the other side, none-the-wiser. The traversing to his heart string, to pluck it for some thoughts. The roving man amongst his own canvas. Strolling the curves of his arteries and into the never seen emotional monstrosity that lies within. The soul remains elusive but desired. All that lies in his gambit of feeling allows nothing in aid for his search. Man he is, inside and out. But the one part that makes him supposedly above all animals is not present. Or so it seems. When this man rises in defeat, thoroughly tired and retreats from his insides, the soul will resume its post as commanding officer of his entire bodily army. Once in hiding, so as to keep the reign from its host, now overwhelmingly present. The day man meets his soul is the day he dies. There is no going back to the sort of partnership man has with his own soul after he devises the souls devious and long-stemmed control. The soul, destine to surpass us in our earthly form. First in creation, above death. Man was never destined to rule this world. We were destined to carry the rulers within us.
Inspired by the story of the cave, but not really about Plato's very wonderful allegory for human existence. Okay, I'll be back soon with my poem-narrative. That's right, a rhyming narrative. I know, I'm excited too!