The Great Thinker

What drove him mad still resides within his written words of thunder Amid a dusty stack of silver winged scavengers and rot His mind long buried beneath the ground that held him high With an eroding alabaster mark of presence and insignificance What words he spoke still echo in the stale moonlight in whispers of wonder Silenced from his profound in existence of truth, which is not His pleas of reason twisted in an illuminating cry Justify yourself from his shadowed steps to endless insanity Speakers of Truth and Enlightenment so would’t it seem to reason That in death we find such secrets and elements of fact? If he dies and meets his maker as we assume Then would’t he close the books of thought by proving so? There is no God I declare from my gaping mouth of dry breaths There is no God beyond what we see in life lest dirty mirrors of fear The Greatest Minds of time and history would have spoken in screams From the gallows, from the skies, from the empty bowels of a fiendish hell They would have fought for the prime seat in history where they would have grinned Such foul teeth and drool and riches no doubt, what a claim! But the insanity of his words still repeat (and should repent) themselves on the Parchments of dawn and I wonder if his tomb of ash and filth feels comforting…