Oracle

An assignor of meaning . . .
Pathways through, you are cleaning.

From all kinds of obstructions.
Most are merely constructions,

Of an active living mind,
As it lives and gets refined.

A flawed world is the setting.
A perfect stage for dramas letting.

The point of your observer.
What gives it all such fervor.

These are truths that none can steal.
But to most they are not real.

These are the tales you evince.
Not your purpose to convince.

Your cleaning brings more clutter,
For many of the others.

It’s meaning of only yours.
It is felt within your core.

This is a world in your own.
Can’t explain what you’ve been shown.

Laid bare, a bunch of nonsense,
But distilled through your conscience,

It bursts forth as something more.
It’s a feeling that’s adored.

That for which there ARE no words.
Speaking of it sounds absurd.

What makes it all appealing.
Is how it leaves ‘em feeling!

Maybe put your faith in these?
Gently proceed with some ease?

Traverse the polarity,
Make peace with sincerity,
Soon there will be clarity.

To those who need it, and by not one more,
With perfect timing, not a minute before.