Is It True?

Is it true that the last is first?
Is it true that the bluff is content and quixotic?

Forsooth!
 
Black wings abound in congress, fluttering the firmament with delegations of a sorrowful fortitude

Into the immemorial they peer, fumbling to concepts of a foreign antediluvian antiquity

Arise, arise! Coeval construct of immeasurable worth, hark forth the lies from a hollow throat

Is it true that their bones rattle in the wind?
That their construe can match the swiftest steed’s pace?

Forsooth!

Amalgamations of foundations slipping against the fractioning time, impassable canyons of quiet discourse, draining the dexterity of a questionable escape

Now riding the howling gumption
Tears streaming into the infinite and formless breath lost to the tales of yesteryear

Pity the penury of the soul and sabotage the gay abandon of a restless reproach
Suitable circumstances of the cyclopean, become more than the mind can command

Architectural illuminations, complex in their cunning and connivance
Enhancing the light of a peerless realm, enchanting the axioms of a cosmos unseen

Asserting dominance into the hands of the aberrant aesthete, sculpting a will if you will?

Forsooth!

Gateways of gambling tongues, whispering ridiculous notions of aspiration
Bleating out the chorus of truth, the will of the quarrelling Gods

Yet for all their noise, I sit here in the quiet, alone in the quiet, contemplating the truth

It hurts
It hurts

Is it true?
Is it at all true, now that the wonder is lost?