Tell me, o dilettantes,
And august savants,
Of your natural urge,
And not so this purge
Which in itself, after all
Hides thy vanity, a pall
Writing, believing that on the looms of time,
You will cogitate beyond this mortal crime.
Wherefore thou discerns progress,
From sage duress to wickedness.
There are many, among those,
Whose musings on paper propose,
To either define the world,
Or themselves, hurled,
Into a mass of such language,
For which they claim to engage,
Believing to judge by inception and intuition,
Rather than form, substance and conception.
Disharmony, injustice, religion, chance,
Naivete: innocence in innocent parlance.
Is this really the drink,
These claims to think,
Or flights of fancy gain'd,
By thy lungs' hope stain'd?
No. Nefas. Nada. Nein.
What follows this wine,
If not a dullened mull,
Is the scientific consul,
Of a million savage definitions,
All of whom lack true intentions.
There is yet another sort,
Who paint in glorious retort,
Themes of what in our ego,
We destroy, and evolve, lo!
At the expense of elements
That form, for sure, our contents:
Earth, water, fire, fell air,
Chaos to them all foreswear,
And this, my son, is that vast lee,
For magick, superstition and fantasy.
Down in this deep, dark world of words,
And old tongues, festering in limbic herds,
There is, in that tiny corner, above your eyes,
And that most primitive of tracts, smell besides,
A calm reason not to reason,
But seek a journey: Treason
To many, atavism to gregarious some.
When words fail, and opinions mum,
Then alone could winters see the sun,
And the summer welcome icicles spun.
So, me fellow wanderer,
Withhold thy pen, and err:
So that the wieght of consonants
And alphabets, their adjutants
Far from twist and compel
Thee to thyself repel;
But bring to light that need
Which fuels thy crucial greed
To seek the feel of this ink and feather
Suspending impulse, and a logical weather.
- quotes about evolution
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