With what comes where
And how follows when.
For the lost will ever fear
And the found never learn.

Faith lives and all own.
What’s seen is received
And again left all alone;
Like all believed, conceived.

The mind roams no course,
Thoughts feel their own way.
For many, their remorse
To others beacons a bay.

In the quest for source,
The search is the force.
Its hunger is blinding
And its timing, binding.

Many has sight failed,
More will lust then wish.
The senses boxes mailed;
Multitudes fed on their dish.

If mind had one more sense,
It will be its chosen thought;
Which is just another lens.
For faith, it has always sought.

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