1st draft
He used to walk upon the thousand hills
‘Til the day he became truthless
He once drank of the gushing wine
Yet the Spring has dried up
Why does he accept his fate?
As if he had no choice
His faculties are in working order
But there is a missing gear
The hills are but a jaunt up
The wine merely to be tapped
If only his clouds
Would slow their rushing across the sky
A cumulonimbus blocks the light of the sun
That which fed the flourishes of the painter’s brush
The canvas is barren
There are no more worthy ideas
He is truthless.
And he doesn’t know what truth is
All the thousands of words in the thousand books
Cannot discover the mystery