For Knowledge

The philosophical ramblings of a silly girl.

How is it that we always know
the ends before we learn the beginnings?
And is it that we treasure
the beginnings more than the ends,
and yet we insist that there are no ends,
only beginnings?
Beginnings of what, I wonder?
But no one who knows the answer will tell me.
(In truth, I doubt they know the answer anyway.)
Clearly I am falling
away from all this.
Or perhaps I am just falling

 

Author's Note

It's monotonous, I know. I'm not quite sure how to fix it.

Reviews

[Emily B]

aw, perfectly silly, in a serious way.

Edgar Lee Masters says in his poem "Silence," that "their silence shall be interpreted as we approach them." It could be that we can't know the answers until we've earned them.

I love this, by the way, awesome stuff.