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Poem

How often have you heard this expression: “ Well, sorry to say, this is my nature.” Just
what is the nature of Man? Why are we such a predictable lot? Why is War our bed partner?
These questions and many more can be asked but never really given satisfactory answers
without stepping on toes that would bring the wrath of these elitist down on our heads.
Unfortunately for all of us, we come into this world with existing governing systems
predicated on certain tenets and creeds. These opinions, doctrines, or principles held as
being true by persons or especially by organizations. Yet never allowing future
generations the privilege of researching these systems that are responsible for our very
own nature, without an inquisition around the corner.
Apparently, it is much easier to burn these (true) inquisitors at the stake,
metaphorically speaking, than risk having a house built on a sandy foundation, crumble.

The seeming nature oft presumed be Man’s
Is nothing less than some abstracted mode,
Conceived in dreams, contrived within human
Invention; dreamt-up folly episodes.
A dream is oft-involuntary mind
Sensations, not of serious award.
Consisting mostly of surreal kinds:
Unreal phantoms most assured ignored.
For some we note in highest places rule
The masses minds. Imaginary creeds,
Assumed the truth, but nonetheless a cruel
Inhuman whimsy borne o’er time, indeed!
Depose these charlatans! Divest their robes.
Expose their vile intentions. Burn their clothes!

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