Becoming pensive stone,
Somewhat a paperweight,
A gargoyle or immortal sage,
Which share a solomn face,
Folly for great wisdom,
A madness in restraint,
Cleaved from a common rock each way,
Yet different portraits trace.

The elegance of these reasoned facts,
Expressions in no uncertain terms,
I've come to love to read such symbols,
Cutting to the core of things,
Stripping off obscuring particularities,
Until all that's left is quickened fact,
To which I soar and glide upon,
And make an engine for my mind,
To bolster thoughts and make them run,
To chug along in boiling fluency,
Until the quickened facts cascade,
Into their pretty consequence.

Trying talks,
And the time trickles by,
And I try to understand the tones,
But the tri-tones just seem to trace the boiling emotion,
And I'm shifting through a timeless stew,
That tastes so tangible and not,
And I sit confused,
But an answer sits at the tip of my tongue,
Yet He left it there for another day,
When I'll be a little better prepared for trying talks,
It never left his hands anyway.