“Pieces of the poem fell in fragments
Like the pictured windows of ancient cathedrals
Shattered by a rock they fell with no floor in sight.”

And so do we,
Fall from the platforms we have built,
The cognitive structures designed
To keep us safe.

The Truth we seek may well exist
But we are sized as pieces only,
Fragments of flesh,  Moments in time.

Imagine with me, for this moment in time, a cluster of DNA trying to “find it’s place” inside of us. Does it live? Or is it life itself? The question thus posed, is itself a “pose”. The words are arranged to look like a question, but, like a costume, they are not what they represent.
They reflect instead the Wittgenstein concerns as I understand them.
That is, our language invites us to create verbal arrangements that can lead us to functional discoveries with operational use in our daily world, and also to fantasy adventures in worlds that take us away from this one. Despite the way it looks, “what is the color of the number 3?”,  is not a question.

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