Eternal somewhat now

tautology of implicit this and that, 

warranted of the oft understood misunderstood,
the harvesting of soon,
ripples into the past again and again,
I feel it like a wave in the soul, 
with it's silent rages,
for not knowing enough of the truth
in time for the revolution

Pastiche of pontificated moments,
where the internalization of speech,
mesmerizes the mindsphere,
and holds in orbit the stars.