The Sophist

It started with a simple sentence
Then came a simple question: “what do you mean?”
Then the words took on a life of their own
They ran every which way
Like one of Daedoulus’s creations
Each word bred a thousand more
Shades of meaning gathered till the sky was black
Words twisted
Flipped places and disappeared
Only to reappear in strange places
Places they didn’t belong
Or maybe they did
A simple statement turned into
Everything and nothing
The bones of existence itself were laid bare
Or maybe created
But still the words piled on
Words upon words
Blowing, drifting, spiraling and piling like leaves in late autumn
The drowning speaker shouts a question:
But the answer drowns him in words
The path out only leads deeper in
There is no escape from the words
The noise
The senseless circles
The start of it all is lost amidst the words
The end may not exist
Or if it does, it only leads to a new beginning
And still the words come
Word upon word
Idea upon speech
No relief
No rescue
The words keep coming
And the truth is lost in the babble of the words
Or maybe the truth is the words
Or the right words
But there is no answer
Word upon word
Till the words grow so much that they cease


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