"lyres" poems
The day is bright and blue,
While the night hails the universe's true view.
The sun, hailed as the giver of all life and the first true fire,
As the moon is considered all of death's lyres.
While life is given power by the sun,
The moon is the cloak for all of its assassins.
As the sun is fiery and passionate,
Our moon is quiet and loves maleficence.
As the day gives only the bare truth,
The night covers all that who are to sleuth
Sun and moon,
God and Satan,
Earth and sky,
Truth and jive,
Life and death,
Fire and water,
Dusk and dawn
Diverting Martyrs
Oppositions of our humainty,
Sun and moon,
Balance our reality...
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
As the Thunderbolt God Jupiter
Saturn’s brother
Pursued his loves in disguise
The Goddess Hera sat upon her throne
Irritated and plotting
Gazing with angry jealous eyes
Oh, courageous intelligent Athena
****** Goddess of the hunt
Dare the foolish to cast eyes upon her unclothed
Under the sentence of a tortuous death
Its said by many she was not birthed
But sprang surprisingly from her father’s head
The lovely Aphrodite
Would melt the hearts of many a man
Who would offer up their life
For but a faint touch of her hand
The Light God Apollo admirer of the word, reciting poetry
Pluck the gold lyres delicate strings
While the sea god Poseidon’s twelve daughters
Mermaids
Dressed in dripping seaweed began to sing
Ares of the bold god of war
Feared conqueror and great warrior
Planted flowers
As was his custom in the spring
Artemis in fervent haste strung her magical bow
For it was pursuit that stirred her blood
It flowed through her veins
Aged Roman wine
Running stags through shadowy woods
The gods of the Kings
The Gods of the people
To whom many sacrifices were made
Lived thousands of years beyond the lifespan of man
So, say the storytellers of olden times and past days
All right Reserved. Tammy M. Darby. Jan. 31, 2019
All Material Stored in Author Base
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 9:08 PM UTC
Over the hills,
From mountain to mountain,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Playing his pipes,
And drinking the wine,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
A cave in the hills,
The heart of his fair Arcadia,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Demeter he found,
And then he told Zeus,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
In fair Arcadia,
He stood feeding his hounds,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Artemis came,
And he gave her ten pairs,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Visions and dreams,
In trances and dances of ecstasy,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Fair Apollo came,
And learned prophecy at his feet,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Bragging and boasting,
He plays his pipes and he dances,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Apollo comes challenging,
And the mountain god liked lyres,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Echo he loved,
He sang and he wooed,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Scorning his love,
His panic tore her to shreds,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Youngest of gods,
But oldest by far,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Father of all,
And forever the Child,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
2.9k
(Lines on the loss of the “Titanic”)
I
In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.
II
Steel chambers, late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.
III
Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls—grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.
IV
Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.
V
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: “What does this vaingloriousness down here?”. . .
VI
Well: while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything
VII
Prepared a sinister mate
For her—so gaily great—
A Shape of Ice, for the time fat and dissociate.
VIII
And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.
IX
Alien they seemed to be:
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history.
X
Or sign that they were bent
By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one august event,
XI
Till the Spinner of the Years
Said “Now!” And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.
2.7k
*It's optional
Like the fading of skies
Early, wild, or remorseful.
All the impalpable space in the lights
Scaled in weighty gilt and curls
The locks and gold of sun,
early as it sets on a moiety of moor grey
Brushed by shadows of agonised poplars
on a spiral land of sheer pistachio blanket.
Muffled by lyres played from the trumpets of
convolvuluses, behind spears of the brain-
an imagery commence to carouse
into planet deep.
A promenade atop the tulle of skies,
an optional way to live.
Saunter and fall onto slopes, shudder, meditate
and hit a bee coffin pebble on the temple
Where there are options to live, to bleed.
Like the lurid sunrise sifting on
yellow-green nuts, and dandruffs combed
like granulated sugar
Oh the taste of chemistry
on the shea butter candles.
It's sanguine and optional,
your farewells on laden calendars of poems
A promenade- back into sea of spears and flames
A cadaver veined in pink,
bearing plethora of methanol
down pulverising bone.*
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 5:52 AM UTC
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! -yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.
We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:
It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutablilty.
2.3k
Was there ever a time when lovers sat outside of windows and played lyres,
Or were those only stories dreamed up by romantic minds-
Too daring by half
But still not nearly daring enough to do the things they sang about?
If I threw pebbles at your windowpane, you would tell me to go back to sleep.
Darling, what is that? How do you love someone, nowadays?
With roses and chocolate,
Or is even that too much, in modern times?
What is this casualness, a...
Casualty?
I feel.
And I would stand outside your gate all night and sing to you,
Had you a gate and had I a voice.
But this world is... different than I expected.
And I don't know how to love you, it's true.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
*Where is that inner child,
why did it depart-
And take with it the stories,
That were close unto your heart*
From Mother Goose to Tennyson's
"Idyll's of the King",
folklore and fairy tales-
Of which the minstrels sing
Knights in shining armor,
atop their steeds of grace-
Protecting king and country
as they ride from place to place
There’s Jack and his stalk of beans,
“Lil Red and her hood-
Hansel, and his sister-
traips'n thru the wood
Rainbows and leprechauns,
elusive pots ‘o’ gold,
Oh, how many, many times have these
tales been told-
Fairies ‘neath the mushroom caps,
elves in their acorn hats,
Dancing 'neath the moon-ring light-
as fireflies flicker, to the “music
of the night”
And from the heavens, a horse appears-
adorned with wings of flight-
And from its head, a single horn-
the pure, and blessed, unicorn.
The minstrels, with their lutes and lyres-
amused the population-
But, could it be, these tales be true,
or just your imagination?
*That inner child, it's still there
It hasn’t gone away-
It just needs to be awakened-
on perhaps, this very day.*
r.riddle December 18, 2010-Copyright
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
The twilight’s inner flame grows blue and deep,
And in my ****** over leagues of sea,
The temples glimmer moonwise in the trees.
Twilight has veiled the little flower face
Here on my heart, but still the night is kind
And leaves her warm sweet weight against my breast.
Am I that Sappho who would run at dusk
Along the surges creeping up the shore
When tides came in to ease the hungry beach,
And running, running, till the night was black,
Would fall forespent upon the chilly sand
And quiver with the winds from off the sea?
Ah, quietly the shingle waits the tides
Whose waves are stinging kisses, but to me
Love brought no peace, nor darkness any rest.
I crept and touched the foam with fevered hands
And cried to Love, from whom the sea is sweet,
From whom the sea is bitterer than death.
Ah, Aphrodite, if I sing no more
To thee, God’s daughter, powerful as God,
It is that thou hast made my life too sweet
To hold the added sweetness of a song.
There is a quiet at the heart of love,
And I have pierced the pain and come to peace.
I hold my peace, my Cleïs, on my heart;
And softer than a little wild bird’s wing
Are kisses that she pours upon my mouth.
Ah, never any more when spring like fire
Will flicker in the newly opened leaves,
Shall I steal forth to seek for solitude
Beyond the lure of light Alcæus’ lyre,
Beyond the sob that stilled Erinna’s voice.
Ah, never with a throat that aches with song,
Beneath the white uncaring sky of spring,
Shall I go forth to hide awhile from Love
The quiver and the crying of my heart.
Still I remember how I strove to flee
The love-note of the birds, and bowed my head
To hurry faster, but upon the ground
I saw two wingèd shadows side by side,
And all the world’s spring passion stifled me.
Ah, Love, there is no fleeing from thy might,
No lonely place where thou hast never trod,
No desert thou hast left uncarpeted
With flowers that spring beneath thy perfect feet.
In many guises didst thou come to me;
I saw thee by the maidens while they danced,
Phaon allured me with a look of thine,
In Anactoria I knew thy grace,
I looked at Cercolas and saw thine eyes;
But never wholly, soul and body mine,
Didst thou bid any love me as I loved.
Now I have found the peace that fled from me;
Close, close, against my heart I hold my world.
Ah, Love that made my life a lyric cry,
Ah, Love that tuned my lips to lyres of thine,
I taught the world thy music, now alone
I sing for one who falls asleep to hear.
1.6k
Once more the battles of life by stealth,
Creep upon you with blades, half hid under devil's sheath,
Deceiving soul and self of their immortal worth,
Shrinking my heart the breadth of its girth,
My friend fights, struggles to slay their ghost,
I've wondered how such a soul can be haunted,
And for days I've prayed and chanted,
Because of the fear their spirit is lost.
I have walked, traversed prayer's line for miles,
To save them from a fate that appals the mind and riles,
Searching fathoms of my sadness stricken soul,
To find ways to make again theirs whole,
Imagining their sheer delight,
In future years bereft of chains,
Bereft of sad and melancholy refrains,
I see them free, take flight.
May God grant light and love and peace,
May their mental struggle cease,
For being borne aloft on wings,
That inspire mind to soar and sing,
Considering Love a sufficient goal,
An immortal truth adorned by light,
That maketh for an awesome sight,
At peace with the one and all.
My friend being stricken found life devious,
Instead of coy and mischevious,
While that great Knight, that rose out of Heaven's fires,
Inspires feelings suffice to be sung to lyres,
Yet feels themselves beneath the beams
Of destiny, that touch the Earth,
Warms it the breadth of its girth,
And whose luck's light kisses our dreams.
My friend wails for their wilting fate,
And in my Heart a sorrow gestate,
I want my Heart to waltz with theirs,
Out of it's spiritual bars,
On the shores of Heaven we'd frolic play,
With them I'd be engorged on bliss,
Touched by the light of luck's kiss,
All throughout the day.
In my devotion I have learned this,
That to be not devoted is remiss,
To deny truth of Love is the worst,
Be banished from its kingdom who accursed,
Her splendour, to which we ought to be,
In mesmerised and spellbound awe,
To love, and cherish, and adore,
Her gifts and generosity.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 10:53 PM UTC
I find questions to the answers damning;
They quote the darkest volumes,
And speak in whispered tones
That haunt my mind with lemmings.
Thrilling chills reverberate
Throughout my spine, intoxicating
The superfluous influx of aeon.
In Elysium I await.
Forgotten songbirds’ melodies
Are ripe within their own stages,
However, the message behind their incantations,
Mocks the frigid winds of change.
Apologetic reverences deny the peaceful hum
Of every ***** and flute of desire
And of all the lyres to be strummed.
Stumbling upon a corpse of old,
Necrosis doth eat away,
Putridity and phobia have at last been lead astray,
Maggots upon maggots, an **** of disease,
Now struggle for control here,
In the epitome of our dying age.
The eyes that once saw hope,
And the heart that once felt love,
Our absentee in place of rot,
And are swapped with rustic carrion.
The dismal breeze that flow
Swiftly under the crest of raven-wing,
Solidify bones as well as the toxins that
Cryptically burn and sting.
A creation of mass panic, euphoria
Are bound to allow riot’s treason,
A repentance of nostalgia
For uncountable reasons.
Alas, we have but come close enough to success,
To amount in a drowning of failure,
To kiss the shores of dreams come true,
And to be denied of those dreams’ savior.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Dim-cast stars
Begin their vigil
Thunder strums
The lyres of myth
Puddles of dreams
Rinse dying skies
Iridescent crags
Breathe petrichor
Lightning arcs
Invading my dreams
Dusty feet stumble
Unto sinless floors
Love-burnt hands
In reckless abandon
Bloodied with ink
And papercuts
Words sewn to fit;
To tailor the soul
Coalesced by cords
Of liqueur and brew
Only to be abandoned
And forgotten.
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
Odysseus never understood why the gods were so intrigued by him. He was only one man in the folds of time, but there was something in him that glowed. He burned through the eyes, made them remember. Still, he prayed, they gave him storms and seductive ocean lyres to hold him down. They only wanted him to understand what he had in his center. But he was lost long before.
Twisting and turning
in your ship
fate won’t let you go
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 9:30 PM UTC
If not in this place, but the next realm,
I shalt mine love clepe thee with guardian's to surround; thou shalt findeth me, in a Robe of ivory white, anew with the saint's,
Yahweh's chosen, i'll be in flight. Holding mine hand out, for thy own to reach, when passing the gates I've passed; thou shalt seeith the gold laden street's. I wilt signal the other's, that the portal was not breached. As thou wilt experience a million senses for thy eyne, speech, hearing, touch, thing's God to thee shalt teach. Multi-colored racemes shalt brushstroke the heavenly peak's, O' how the energy we wilt feeleth wilt be as the health of newborn's. None more thunderous storm's or anguish back upon the lower ground; now serenity none enmity against the once demons who came around. Shofar and lyres to grace Jehovah's peaceful sound's; as the echoes art vibes that cometh betwixt ourn soul's. As verily, verily, heaven's ourn abode, heaven's ourn abode by which we shan't fear. Cometh closer mine dear; the time is close, how I now heareth the heavenly Host's, ready to welcome us in. Cometh up hither Christ shalt soon say, judgement day is creeping the corner. We giveth Yahweh praise.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou)
©Prophetic poetry
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 1:28 PM UTC
The Poseidonians forgot the Greek language
after so many centuries of mingling
with Tyrrhenians, Latins, and other foreigners.
The only thing surviving from their ancestors
was a Greek festival, with beautiful rites,
with lyres and flutes, contests and wreaths.
And it was their habit toward the festival's end
to tell each other about their ancient customs
and once again to speak Greek names
that only few of them still recognized.
And so their festival always had a melancholy ending
because they remebered that they too were Greeks,
they too once upon a time were citizens of Magna Graecia;
and how low they'd fallen now, what they'd become,
living and speaking like barbarians,
cut off so disastrously from the Greek way of life.
1.3k
WE count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,
But o'er their silent sister's breast
The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them:--
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,--
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory!
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.
O hearts that break and give no sign
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death pours out his longed-for wine
Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,--
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
Sonnet.
Je m'en allais, les poings dans mes poches crevées ;
Mon paletot aussi devenait idéal ;
J'allais sous le ciel, Muse ! et j'étais ton féal ;
Oh ! là ! là ! que d'amours splendides j'ai rêvées !
Mon unique culotte avait un large trou.
- Petit-Poucet rêveur, j'égrenais dans ma course
Des rimes. Mon auberge était à la Grande-Ourse.
- Mes étoiles au ciel avaient un doux frou-frou
Et je les écoutais, assis au bord des routes,
Ces bons soirs de septembre où je sentais des gouttes
De rosée à mon front, comme un vin de vigueur ;
Où, rimant au milieu des ombres fantastiques,
Comme des lyres, je tirais les élastiques
De mes souliers blessés, un pied près de mon coeur !
1.3k
I miss the crinkle smile
lines slithering up your
cheeks like canals on
the Martian surface-
evidence that life was once there.
Or the way your laughter could penetrate
the depths of my dead skin like
harmonious frequencies
erupting from a kitchen muse.
And where your hands touched
so did Midas follow;
and where your hair spiraled
out of your face in pinwheels
so did galaxies imitate.
The bed is colder now that you
have stepped away.
I miss the depressions in the sheets.
Oh yes I miss a lot.
But most of all I miss
what I never thought i would miss-
the ability of your lips to create
the sweetest music I’ve ever heard,
a thousand lyres playing in unison: I love you too.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 1:28 AM UTC
They said that the breeze
Told them nothing but miseries
They said that the grass
Inhaled nothing but nurseries
They said, “We seek you for tragedies,
And we want our tears to pick your lyers;
we made you dreams of catastrophic allegories,
and we want our grief to mourn over your prejudice
of undesired futures.”
They claimed that they were conjured of
Passion and mysteries
Of knowledge other than blasphemies
They said, “We chant you for the last morning tea
We desire you for your ever-after evening satires,
Stay, and keep us for the crystal wires
Of your undying lyres.”
They said so as desired and as deprived,
Yet if they are so afraid to lose
Why do they seek in the first place?
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
A poem can be a statement,
A poem can be a song.
It can be a piece of music,
Playing all night long.
First we have to go up,
Then we must go down.
Then we have to go all around
To find this ****** town.
Poetry is music,
Singing us a song.
Any way you choose it,
Bing, bang, ****
Assonant sounds assemble,
Alliteration lilts our lyres.
Raps and rhymes are pulsing,
Kindling all those fires.
An orchestra is playing
On this very page.
Letters and words are strumming:
It’s a Golden Age.
Choirs of Angels Singing,
Guitars with a twang.
Ear that piano playing,
This may or may not scan.
If a pawn’s the soul of chess,
As Philidor did say,
Then letters and the sounds they show
Are what brighten the poet’s day.
So get those letters running,
All along the page.
Those sounds are our chess pieces,
Ready to engage.
Paul Butters
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 5:58 AM UTC
Psyché dans ma chambre est entrée,
Et j'ai dit à ce papillon :
- « Nomme-moi la chose sacrée.
« Est-ce l'ombre ? est-ce le rayon ?
« Est-ce la musique des lyres ?
« Est-ce le parfum de la fleur ?
« Quel est entre tous les délires
« Celui qui fait l'homme meilleur ?
« Quel est l'encens ? quelle est la flamme ?
« Et l'organe de l'avatar,
« Et pour les souffrants le dictame,
« Et pour les heureux le nectar ?
« Enseigne-moi ce qui fait vivre,
« Ce qui fait que l'oeil brille et voit !
« Enseigne-moi l'endroit du livre
« Où Dieu pensif pose son doigt.
« Qu'est-ce qu'en sortant de l'Érèbe
« Dante a trouvé de plus complet ?
« Quel est le mot des sphinx de Thèbe
« Et des ramiers du Paraclet ?
« Quelle est la chose, humble et superbe,
« Faite de matière et d'éther,
« Où Dieu met le plus de son verbe
« Et l'homme le plus de sa chair ?
« Quel est le pont que l'esprit montre,
« La route de la fange au ciel,
« Où Vénus Astarté rencontre
« À mi-chemin Ithuriel ?
« Quelle est la clef splendide et sombre,
« Comme aux élus chère aux maudits,
« Avec laquelle on ferme l'ombre
« Et l'on ouvre le paradis ?
« Qu'est-ce qu'Orphée et Zoroastre,
« Et Christ que Jean vint suppléer,
« En mêlant la rose avec l'astre,
« Auraient voulu pouvoir créer ?
« Puisque tu viens d'en haut, déesse,
« Ange, peut-être le sais-tu ?
« Ô Psyché ! quelle est la sagesse ?
« Ô Psyché ! quelle est la vertu ?
« Qu'est-ce que, pour l'homme et la terre,
« L'infini sombre a fait de mieux ?
« Quel est le chef-d'oeuvre du père ?
« Quel est le grand éclair des cieux ? »
Posant sur mon front, sous la nue,
Ses ailes qu'on ne peut briser,
Entre lesquelles elle est nue,
Psyché m'a dit : C'est le baiser.
1k
*Where is that inner child,
why did it depart-
And take with it the stories,
That were close unto your heart*
From Mother Goose to Tennyson's
"Idyll's of the King",
folklore and fairy tales-
Of which the minstrels sing
Knights in shining armor
atop their steeds of grace-
Protecting king and country
as they ride from place to place
There’s Jack and his stalk of beans,
“Lil" Red and her hood-
Hansel, and his sister-
traips'n thru the wood
Rainbows and leprechauns,
elusive pots ‘o’ gold,
Oh, how many, many times have these
tales been told-
Fairies ‘neath the mushroom caps,
elves in their acorn hats,
Dancing 'neath the moon-ring light-
as fireflies flicker, to the “music of the night”
And from the heavens, a horse appears-
adorned with wings of flight-
And from its head, a single horn-
the pure, and blessed, Unicorn.
The minstrels, with their lutes and lyres-
amused the population-
But, could it be, these tales be true,
or just your imagination?
*That inner child, it's still there
It hasn’t gone away-
It just needs to be awakened-
on perhaps, this very day*
r.riddle December 18, 2010-Copyright
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
As darkness is just perceptive errors or failures,
Light reveals more.
Investigation yields more
Than merely just believing;
You can believe in everything,
Without believing in anything.
You can believe in everything,
Without believing in 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.
You can believe in everything,
Without it meaning anything.
You can believe anything,
Even while it goes against all that is logical & virtuous.
Believing in everything without properly investigating
Is meaningless.
Believing in anything that after investigation contradicts
Logic & Virtue, facts & opinion - both the objective & subjective,
Is meaningless.
Don't read into things
Which really aren't there to begin with,
Because there is so much
Of which you all are ignorant.
So don't be arrogant;
Be a teacher,
Parent.
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 2:43 PM UTC