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…
Copyright © Jeanette Ozee | Year Posted 2006
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