Plato’s, Human Perception

“if the very nature of knowledge changes, at the time when the change occurs there will be no knowledge, and, according to this view, there will be no one to know and nothing to be known: but if that which knows and that which is known exist ever, and the beautiful and the good and every other thing also exist, then I do not think that they can resemble a process of flux, as we were just now supposing.”

Plato 428 BC/ 348 BC


This is a poetic summation of the development of one’s perceptions. In a sense, it is a story that engages one’s retrospective view for the suggestive nature that poetry can offer, in the quest of getting to know the origins of our introspective views, which chart our course in life.


Little souls will hunker down like turtle’s head retracting, when facing things that can confound these souls are left to acting.
They view the world of dos and don’ts from mainstream contradictions, retracting heads can advance to meds for those not good at acting.
Such altered states can help to make a head of free zone thinking, but temp escape just makes the wait implode between the blinking.
They do as you do not as you say to practice perceived perfection, no wonder why enraptured eyes form hearts without perception.
They view the you that’s seldom seen from eyes with blind reflections, develop traits along their way that mirror your word’s deceptions.
New world exposes these blossomed roses to blight that’s sometimes frightening, yet little minds have had no time to seek the source enlightening.
Mother old and often cold embraces nothing worthy, re-frames her past insane she laughs at chances lost at thirty.
Unhappy past from mother’s laughs seek souls that are dependent, for to stand alone by leaving home cast you as court’s defendant.
Betray the clan become a lamb a life with choice of plenty but know thy choice will have recourse in mother’s court of honey.
The hive of five now two that died leaves clan without a fiber, and three remain just feeling pain no bond to past changed diapers.
No one to blame life is a game some meant to win and losers, make sense of what compassion trust or absent tales of homers?
I know not what could change thy luck of siblings’ plight persona, life’s come to be a place to see why old mans times are loners.
Broken clan that bound the band of tunes of once familiar won’t ring a note designed for throat nor sing a song that’s crueler.
These ones who’ve passed can’t mend the mast for torrent seas departure and humming tunes in ghost filled rooms won’t port a ship’s safe harbor.
Set sail and winch inspecting stitch, fix helm on way-point distant, cut each thread bound to earthly ground and float from shores malignant.






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Writing with the Veiled…