The Impossible Truth

Mixed metaphors, like the arrow, seeking its reward, on the target, and though the target remains still and in place, the effort continues, and eyes of smiling countenance, and hearts, crazy with the passion of the lust for understanding, and there is cracking in the wind, and the day, just like the arrow, searching for its reality, And the present time, refuses the clock, and dwells upon the truth of a moment in its present time. Exactitude, and the comfort of living, and the worth of the breath, and the sight of the eye, and the smell and the hearing, and the touch. And truth just doesn't exist here, and exactitude is therefor a joke, and bright vibrant colours confront, and they try to explain, but we all are too busy talking and painting, to look and to listen and to learn. In fact, it is comfortable for us to feel that we don't know when we are lost. So discernment isn't impressed, it has been scared away, and it casts a backward look, for the soul to speak to the soul, and then to begin to grasp, the truth outside of the impossible truth.