Lost Latitude Podcast
- Dennis M
- Feb 25
- 1 min read
’Tis a marvel strange that men, who boast of singing battles old—of clashing swords and striking slings—should pass in silence Mansoul’s dire affray, allowing her wars to decay into the dust of time. I do not weave fables of kings nor craft tales of imagined feats, but I thread truth’s own tapestry, that souls might yet believe.
Who art thou, O wanderer, that strays in twilight paths, till thou dost see this siege anew? Some spin their yarns of lands that never were, raising great mountains stirred by fancy’s dream. With gilded words, they adorn their pages fair, yet leave the heart unfed, bereft of care.
But I am no maker of such empty delights. I bring forth a war that rages before your very eyes—a city fair, assailed by shadows dark, yet by Shaddai’s Son with light and love reclaimed. When Reason’s gate stood ajar to guile’s sweet call, when twisted tongues unraveled what once stood tall—when Screen’s bright glow bound the wandering eye, and Waste choked green fields with its spoiled cry—then Relativism’s fog swept over truth, and Mansoul slumbered, a flock without a shepherd.
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