The prophets dreamed in thunderclouds and flame. . We name it quantum now, but the miracle’s the same. . Ancient eyes saw into the dust of time. . We call it remote viewing and claim it’s sublime. . They whispered warnings through deserts of stone. . We use headsets and frequencies to feel less alone. . They saw kingdoms rise like sparks in the night. . We see algorithms bloom beneath electric light. . Their message was faith, but the logic was dense. . Now we model belief through quantum pretense. . Empires once bent truth to a celestial decree. . Now reason bends language till it breaks into three. . Kant said the pure mind cannot truly see all. . Yet we market enlightenment in videos small. . He built critique from the bones of the brain. . We build content and call it spiritual gain. . Ludwig whispered: “your words make your world.” . Now hashtags are prayers that endlessly twirl. . The prophet had visions, the thinker had doubt. . The mystic saw inward, the lab mapped it out. . We still seek meaning through the mirrors of thought. . Yet every reflection forgets what it sought. . Epistemic threads weave both book and machine. . Each claims the unseen through the seen. . Imperial minds once conquered the map. . Now rational minds colonize the gap. . Between knowing and naming lies the soul’s refrain. . Between mystic and metric breathes the same pain. . The oracle trembled, the physicist dreams. . Both wrestle the void that unravels their schemes. . The language of faith becomes syntax of fact. . But both are translating the same abstract act. . From prophecy’s scroll to quantum equation’s glow, . We’re retelling one truth we still don’t know. . Every “I know” trembles before the sky. . Every “I am” whispers—so tell me, why? . And the thunder answers, as it always has… . Not in words—but in silence that surpasses.
I bargain with my borrowed breath, to buy back hours I’ve already burned. I pledge reform, then scroll to death, still shocked at how the lesson’s spurned.
I quote old saints like traffic signs, then jaywalk through the very creed.
I praise the stoics, draw no lines, and flinch at every passing need.
I swear off idols every night, then worship glowing screens at dawn.
I talk of Logos, seek the light, yet trip on every word I spawn.
I toast to wisdom, clink my glass, with sages carved in borrowed stone.
I quote the Buddha, rush to pass, still cutting others, fearing own.
I wear a cross to hide my shame, a silent joke the angels note.
I say “Thy will,” then sign my name, on every bargain I promote.
I preach of “quiet desperation,” then shout my brand of holy lack.
I sell restraint as liberation, while hauling yet another stack.
I call for love of enemy, and then unfollow, block, delete.
I chant of universal plea, then price compassion by the tweet.
I laud the blues for speaking true, those field-worn hymns of scar and chain.
I hum their ghosts in tailored shoes, forgetting songs were forged from pain.
I praise the mind that won’t submit, to chains of brass and borrowed debt.
Then sign for trinkets, bit by bit, and call my bondage “safety net.”
I lift the texts of stoic kings, who ruled themselves when all was lost.
I fear a harsh email that stings, and call it “existential cost.”
I quote Confucius, seek within, then crowdsource every trembling choice.
I name detachment as a win, while craving any passing voice.
I speak of souls as sparks of fire, then ask the market what I’m worth.
I frame my angst as pure desire, and medicate the ancient dearth.
I cite the call to “dare to live,” yet bargain dreams for cheaper fears.
I hoard the gifts I meant to give, and marvel at these empty years.
I treat tradition as a stage, to quote, not practice, what it knows.
I tag the prophets, call it “sage,” then skip the path their teaching shows.
I mock the world for shallow aims, while praying for a softer yoke.
I blame the systems, curse their games, yet bow each time the rules are spoke.
I laugh at self with gentle dread, a cosmic clown in mortal skin.
I trip on thoughts that sages said, and rise, still bargaining to begin
I wake inside the echo of your retreat. My pulse shakes loose against your silence. Each word you withhold feels bittersweet. I build my hope inside your distance.
My body remembers before my mind. The hunger for warmth, the fear of loss. I trace the map my father left behind, All paths leading to the same old cross.
I study the ache, name it like science. “Anxious attachment,” the doctors say. But naming won’t cleanse this defiance— The boy in me still pleads you to stay.
You vanish behind your practiced calm. I chase the ghost of something kind. Your quiet feels like an open palm, And I mistake it for the love I can’t find.
I bargain with the wind for one last sign. A text, a glance, a crack in your wall. Yet every gesture I claim as mine Falls like rain in an empty hall.
My logic knows where this road bends. It loops back to the father’s stare— The eyes that never warmed, the love that ends, The lesson that healing is loving with care.
So I turn the lens onto myself. I become my own experiment and prayer. I dust the cobwebs off the shelf Where I left forgiveness, waiting there.
You, too, are tangled in your flight. We orbit hurt, unwilling to land. Our tenderness survives the night, Though we touch through trembling hands.
I will not run from what is raw. Nor drown this need in endless chase. Love is not repair—it is what I saw, When I held my wounds and gave them grace.
So I reach, still, but now within. My pulse steadies with honest will. The cycle breaks where I begin— Forgiving what I cannot heal.
We speak in circles to appear profound. Our logic wobbles, yet we stand our ground. . We color words in ideological hue. Then swear the tint itself makes truth come through. . We point at straw men, watch them burn with ease. Declare our virtue on the social breeze. . A sound bite dances, dressed in formal wear. It struts through headlines, basking in hot air. . What’s substance now, if phrased in clever jest? The form is worshiped, meaning dispossessed. . Ad hominem, our daily bread of spite. A tasty feast where reason loses sight. . We sculpt our arguments with plastic grace. A smile can hide the cracks beneath the face. . Emotion rules — the crowd will cheer or boo. For truth is dull; they want a bolder view. . We weaponize the clause, distort the clause. Applause! Applause! We never mind the cause. . Our graphs and charts perform a masquerade. They bow to bias, empirically unfrayed. . False syllogisms waltz across the floor. They lead the blind to claim they see much more. . We duel with data mined from murky swamps. Each swamp, of course, is where belief still romps. . Oh sophist, patron saint of every spin. You teach us how to lose and call it win. . We say “both sides” while hiding in the smoke. The middle burns — the audience the joke. . We love our tribal logos, neat and bright. They glow so much we never see the night. . And through it all, intent becomes disguise. We sell mistruths, then buy our own supplies. . But under rhetoric’s perfumed deceit, There lies a hunger simple and discreet. . To speak in clarity — to shape a thought. Free from deceit, unbent, unsold, unbought. . Let language serve to forge the lucid flame. To name the world, not gild it with acclaim. . For truth requires no costume, mask, or fight. It stands in humble syllables of light. . And should we seek to truly solve, not sway, We’ll drop the tricks — and plainly say our say.
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