The Truth of Thought

The start of something so soft and new,
Brings the hope of Futures past.
Rolling lands turned over-capsulated inside minds,
Fresh time, a gift from the clock.
The Jester throws tactless thoughts to common persons,
But to the sound of mind-reflective speeches worth everything.
A quarter now, almost filled--thoughts are not done,
Wafting through the creators being.

Racing right along the coach turns its course,
The stallion directing its own path.
Not even The Great Symphony* could out play the wind,
Composing its own journey to minds uncaptivated.
Bringing forth the very idea that sparks the interest,
The universal Truth** cannot be contained.
Furthermore, the quill moves not at its own pace,
Half has been created--turning mine ear for more.

Forward--flying faster towards the finish,
The taste of the end is so sweet.
Blurred vision is not call for rest nor shelter,
But even vigilant pursuit can be wary.
Uneven roads turn unexpected,
The future prize of the uncontained truth is far superior.
Three-quarters of the way through--
The parchment is worn.

Connected continuity against raging waters,
Flowing down roads up shore.
Words tangled together like webbed structures,
Holding in place the factors of life.
Knowing all, yet knowing the things that matter,
Thoughts flowing through the ink.
The parchment filled to its greatest extent--
When it is all said and done, His light shines through all.

* Symphony No. 9 in C major by Franz Schubert
** Genesis 17:1-27