The story I cannot entirely tell.

I wish I could tell the story that is fixed upon my heart that exists in as an anomaly in this finite moment, but I can't. Oh what a complexity that burdens my heart with it's wonder and mystery, it is perfect, but a perfection of which I cannot confess without being made a lier. Oh the truth in it's inability to be expressed entirely by the acts of man makes liers of us all. I would like to expound upon truth, not partial, but whole, for without the entire it is not completely truth and thus partial truth in essence be a lie. If only I was not confound to one long final breath exhausted over the passing of days on this terrestrial ball. If only I could relay the truth beyond my finite pass, the future past, in the prescence of no time at all. Then I could speak and be just before thou as not a lier, but then I would be thou who looks upon thee as an abomonal squire with holy eyes of fire, that burn bright with the searing light of truth which I of no physical right may see, save of your providencial pardon of grace and mercy.