Images

With images and with words we spin,
prayers, praises, curses grim,
and ever still the spectre fades,
receding, shading dim.

We look out but from human eyes,
no standard to compare,
and heeding sense; a siren voice,
the truth we would declare.

Yet each and every single one,
a different picture holds,
and each would strike the other seer,
and thus, declare him foe.

Whatever vision ye may cast,
o'er Spirit great or small,
it differs from the truth; be sure.
If it be truth at all.