Nothing left to mask a sleepy face,
Lit up with few too hours of the day,
When talking walks along to silence:
A pretty bench among the bluebells,
Dressed in drooping branches and their newborn leaves,
It's final solace where it cease to simply watch.

Exalted like no other above the heavenly beings,
This great reason and utterance that orders all things,

He is Truth.
He is Beauty.
His path alone is straight,

Come you mighty and kiss the Son,
Follow Him and His Strength won't fail though you fall,
For He is a merciful God,
For He is good.

The noble lie,
Whispers of meaningless meaning,
Revelling in vapour,
Placing mirrors where windows should be.

The blind lead the blind,
And off they trip and tumble,
Into the depths of a vacuous pit,
Fleeting and silent.

Where your heart yearns for meaning,
Maybe beyond it lies the way?
Where your mind yearns for reason,
Maybe beyond it lies the truth?
Where your soul yearns for freedom,
Maybe beyond it lies the life?

As the great thinker once wrote:
'A man does not call a line crooked unless he has some idea of a straight line'.