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Prolegomena Soliloquy - Pt 1

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Prolegomena Soliloquy - Pt 1

Daniel Henry Rodgers


Even pain though it breaks us
is a bell that tolls for meaning.
Your suffering, your losses, your rage—
are they the tantrums of atoms
or something far more sacred
a cry for justice in a world that promises none?
If justice is false then why do we hunger for it?
And if love is chemical, why does it outlast death? - Poet

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Tell me, my friend, does infinity not unsettle your reason, or is it a comfort—to believe it meaningless? Look beyond the rust of your disbelief— this isn’t the frostbitten dogma you imagine. This is the marrow of things, the architecture of why. I will not shout down your doubt, for doubt itself is holy— when it seeks. But you must tell me, where does your faith in chance find its footing? How does a void birth a universe that can ask the question *“why?”* How does nothingness dream of everything? You speak of time as if it were an architect without a blueprint, a mason with no stone, as if the cradle of quarks and leptons— driftwood in an aimless tide— could sculpt itself into sonnets of DNA, into the calculus of longing, into hands that fold not just in hunger, but in hope. **Accident**, you say? Do accidents compose symphonies? I have mapped the double helix, traced the phosphate spine like a pilgrim's path through deserts of nucleotides, and yet— not one formula tells me why a mother sings before her child can even mimic sound, why music, intangible and unmeasurable, moves us to tears, why a symphony composed by deaf hands speaks to souls across centuries, why a widow still sets two plates long after the other seat stays still. Tell me, have you ever touched beauty and felt it— not with your hands but with your pulse, a knowing that beauty is real and cannot lie? You speak of science as though it is your fortress, but do you not see— science is but a keyhole, a narrow gaze into a cathedral unbuilt by man? They call it the anthropic principle— our universe, custom fit— as if probability could love us, as if the cosmic dice... Is it not strange that the dice rolled once, and the numbers fell infinite in favor of us? Tumbling blind through void, would roll out gravity just right, carve carbon’s precise lattice, stretch the strong nuclear force to bind— not an inch too much, not a breath too less— and yet, do your numbers weep for joy at such precision? Can atoms, indifferent, colliding— yet arranging themselves to think, to dream, to love? And what of history— not the brittle scrolls of forgotten empires, but the blood-scrawled pages of one life, nailed between heaven and earth when the Passover moon hung low over Golgotha, and Tacitus took note, and Pliny questioned, and Josephus, though reluctant, wrote His name. A myth does not leave empty tombs that confound centuries, nor burial linens folded with intent, nor does it transform a cowering band of fishermen into fearless heralds before kings unshaken. A myth does not incite a hundred witnesses to martyrdom, does not birth a movement that outlives empires, does not see skeptics— like James and Paul— fall to their knees, trading doubt for devotion. You say, *"Love is chemistry."* Dopamine, oxytocin, a trick of the limbic past— Yet, tell me— why does the martyr march to the stake? Why does the old man in a cold prison cell scrawl words for a people he will never see? And why, after thirty silver pieces, does a man return them with trembling hands before stepping into the night alone? What of Gödel, examining proofs of an infinite mind behind the mind? What of Flew, the atheist who found God in DNA? What of Penrose, speaking of consciousness beyond mere matter? What of Kepler, Galileo, Newton, Collins, Lennox— men and women who, in measuring orbits and falling apples, found their knees bent beneath the weight of knowing they were known? What if all your doubt was nothing more than a crying child seeking milk? And what of evil— if there is no God, then why do we call it evil at all? Why does the murderer run, why does the thief hide, why does the world groan under the weight of its own darkness? Is it not the absence of good, a shadow cast only by something real? And if He stayed His hand from allowing choice, would love itself not wither into mere automation? Is not free will the soil where both evil and virtue take root, and is He not the one who redeems even the darkest soil? Would you call injustice mere miscalculation, or suffering just statistical inevitability? What if the voice you resist is the one that stitched your every synapse, and the question lodged in your chest is not a rejection, but a reaching? I have seen men die empty, and I have seen them die full— and those who go with His name on their lips do not clutch at the air in the end. Tell me, why does this chase you? Why does every civilization etch eternity into its bones? Why does the longing for meaning gnaw at even the most stubborn skeptic? Why, if all is chance, does your heart demand justice, purpose, love? Why, if all is entropy, does your own soul resist— against the wind?
(Go to Part 2)

Copyright © | Year Posted 2025




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Date: 4/30/2025 3:25:00 AM
Wow Daniel, where do I start?Daniel, this is a profoundly moving and intellectually rich piece. You don’t just pose questions—you peel back layers of existence, reason, and wonder with such reverence and clarity. It reads like both a challenge and a prayer, weaving science, philosophy, and faith into something deeply human. Your lines don’t just ask for belief—they ask for reflection, for humility in the face of the unknown. Truly breathtaking work that lingers long after the last word..Hugs
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Date: 4/21/2025 9:49:00 AM
God is love and He gives them to us in life and death. A beautiful poem.
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Date: 4/20/2025 10:26:00 PM
Some power in your questions to your reader, to yourself.... common sense, remarkably... says so much, your quote "how love outlasts death" such a genuine argument.
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Date: 4/19/2025 3:06:00 AM
Beautifully articulated. I love how you’ve intertwined religion, history, science, evil & love altogether. An apt ending about Heart demanding Justice & Love ~ says it all. Enjoyed the line : a myth does not incite. ThkU.
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Date: 4/18/2025 7:55:00 AM
Daniel, as I read this poem it occurs to me that the search for meaning in life is not easy for some. I think it's particularly difficult for those who have never suffered or allowed themselves to feel the sting of grief. The love we have for ourselves and others goes a long way. I truly admire what you are doing here as in the end our behavior does matter. Hope you and your family are well.
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Date: 4/15/2025 6:01:00 PM
Dear Daniel, this poem is a masterpiece, this poem answers all the doubtful questions for humans who search for meaning and the existence of God. Science, Law, business are necessary to sustain life but it's art, music, love and faith in God we live for. Your writing is rich and evocative, especially in the scientific and philosophical insights. With love and respect, Anne
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Date: 4/15/2025 10:46:00 AM
If justice is false then why do we hunger for it? I will not shout down your doubt, for doubt itself is holy— when it seeks. How does nothingness dream of everything? Do accidents compose symphonies? You are so good at composing these questions. The questions are more important than the answers as they cause us to ponder, to think. God bless!
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Kim Rodrigues
Date: 4/15/2025 10:49:00 AM
Sounds like your family is comforting each other. Not easy. When my daughter lost her child due to an ectopic preganancy and my son in law walked me outside I asked him how he was…he said as long as she is ok…I said but, how are you. Each person so important. Hugs and prayers
Date: 4/14/2025 11:58:00 AM
As a seeker of truth, your proposition Daniel, that love outlasts death is a beautiful notion. If no other reason of faith's roots blueprint not enough, love is, my faith in love a friend true blue. It's nice to see you writing un the face of your tragedy. Peace be with dearest poet. I can read your words all day ~ Anaya
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I Am Anaya
Date: 4/14/2025 3:47:00 PM
Prayers for your lovely daughter ~ Strength and healing, Godspeed <3
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Daniel Henry Rodgers
Date: 4/14/2025 12:04:00 PM
Dear Anaya, It was such a blessing to read your note. This particular poem was finished about two weeks ago but I was waiting for the Easter season to begin. As far as my daughter, she is still in tears and asked if she and her husband could stay with us for a few days, which we were elated about. So we loved on them as we all grieved. Thank you for being a great friend. Spring Blessings, My Dear Friend, Daniel

Book: Reflection on the Important Things