The Rant

Gone now are the wondrous minds of old, whose era treasured learning over gold, And humble were the thoughts and words of these, who, trothed to truth, would now be left displeased, by hurried tempers bent on winning wars, neglectful of th’ endurance truth implores, Tis sober wit we prize? And passions tame? For Vulcans we aspire to in name, But Romulans we stoop to in our deed, with raging passions, bleeding hearts to feed, Drink DEEP of Pierian Spring, A. Pope once said, so half-formed wits ferment not in the head, For hurried sips inspire not a thing, ‘cept facile truths for the fell mob to sing, And woe to we dissenters in the fray, Whose searching hearts dare trek into the grey, For black and white and left and right lead not our hearts astray, We are deafened by the cries to match claims with sources cited, These appeals betray the guise of those truly shallow sighted, Take my hand resist the call to join the mass of the misguided, Whose echo chambers are but intellectually blighted, So, My feet is my only carriage now, down roads to ask what, where, when, why, and how, Invention is reserved not for the child, But into dotage should our hearts run wild, and not be curbed by reigning moral creed, which serves only to silence thoughts in need, of courage to expose their patient truth, through Politics’ foul need of moral proof, Do not forget that truth is not subject, to calls to be politically correct, Instead follow your questions to their end, That method Socrates would sure defend, Go boldly into queries that are far too soon dismissed, As the young Queen’s knight errant, down and wounded in the lists, They who must, while Old King reigns, be reserved to moonlight trysts, Till that Knight’s heroic rise, kindled by inherent grist, set aflame with dauntless valor fueled by Queen’s enduring kiss, Likewise, Truth is often not so manifest, And in its youth exiled and dispossessed, It lies in wait for poor wise soul to sing, that song forgot by old and foolish King, Who, hoisted by the mob that did anoint, that crowned façade of truth to score a point, is now th’ unholy grail the mob has prized, filled to the brim with half-truths dogmatized, Seeking refuge from the axiom to let truth’s freedom ring, Tis a sad truth that mobs have no better comfort than a King, And as David thwarts the Philistine with humble stone and sling, So can the meekest voice of truth still bold and loudly sing, And reveal that foulest claw of power – factious suffering, Is it much too late to come together now? Our prosaic swords and shields to disavow, To err is human, forgiving – divine, While dogged animosity serves only to confine, In a world in which we’re praised for parting human chaff from wheat, And at a word, and with a click, a friendship we delete, So quickly we are hypnotized by trending day’s drumbeat, Our nihility reprieved as we go marching in the street, Devoid of love, we thrive on self-regard, to save our precious souls from being scarred, But scarred by what? A truth that modifies, a looking glass constructed out of lies, Unbending we’re no more than barnyard beasts, At beck and call to our elected priests, Be not the beast that slowly plods along, that somber path to slaughter, merely happy to belong, So stop for just one precious moment and consider this, Why the universe continues into infinite abyss, With EACH point at the center of it all, Equidistant from each universal wall, And each celestial orb, it does appear, in universal deference does don the lovely sphere, Could it be those radiative points each to its own contain, some first principle which issues polar points produced in twain, Flying fast on rival vectors, ne’er to see his kin again, On two journeys with same ends, just different means to ascertain, But what those points should not forget – their centers stay the same, And so it is that Nature’s taught us best, Her favorite shape existing to attest, that simplest of lessons we should learn, Each point has its own truth that it would serve us to discern, A funny thing does happen when we see, past the mirage of space ‘tween you and me, That Pierian Spring A. Pope warned us to take, only the deepest draughts for our own sake, does lift the veil of facile eminence, and sober us to stand in awe t’ enlightened ignorance, Revealing us for truly what we are, Mere precious specks of living dust that dance about a star.