Wisdom: conviction. Senses: the present.
Experience: listen and witness with furious mythic persistence.
The mystical-essence connection. Curious methods, but let it be,
if ever we could presently be more than nature,
then death would breed, and force our saviors to ecstasy.
Get it? We, seek the chords in favor of harmony,
melodic reverberations preserving hatred as well as patience.
Love as well as ancient considerations, above the apocryphal
dwelling in burning havens and sanctums: cathedrals,
medieval steeples circumscribed for people's minds
so feeble, blind... the assassin in the clouds with the eagle eye
targeted marksmen, sin and desire,
will and freedom determined by the infinite skyward
being, a demon? A God who inhabits the firmament
or perhaps the passions, their wrath and disastrous
murderous, purposive. Or a sage of the Tao,
spontaneous actions, immortal like the pages of prophets
or the shroud of divine, wizards' and mages' concoctions
potions and mixtures, we wrote it in scripture!
Wisdom, oh wisdom! Lover of such truths.
But nature is chaos as much as it trusts you:
Human, oh human! No finer tragedy could baffle me.
No finer freedom, no finer majesty could capture me.
The Blindest Poet with a mythos as deft as the depths
where the Heavens glisten, the rich elite, the city street.
The bard whispers in your ear lightly, "This is Greece!"
Socratic elenchus: in debate be careful where you stick your feet.
Just to make him take a step back to question his beliefs.
Delphic destiny, the Achilles' Rage of the sage,
Accused of virtuous living then he'd fade to the plague,
Plato, the Phaedo, the hemlock, he'd take it and pray,
'Lest there be another wiser and braver to take my place."
The metaphysic: Platonic forms. Aristotle the better critic,
apprentice academic resistance, no polis of wretched women,
who will never have reason enough to make the best decisions.
Or the Roman Stoic. Or the novus poeta.
Lucretius or Virgil, the Aeneid or Caesar?
A legacy that never knoweth forever, never hoped for the better
just fought until the Death swept over the rest.
Eurypidean tragedies, the Alcestian breath
has left the body, no psyche, no mind, we
Just continue until we find we no longer can try, we...
Sing songs for the ages, till we awaken, enlighten
reformations from Gods and pagans to Saints and the righteous
hoisted on the shoulders of bolder men,
maybe Aristotle was right and to be rash is to revolt your ends
by means of weakness, to think this life could be worth more.
Because the unexamined life isn't great, to be shamed:
Wealthy and broken is just the same as if in pain and dirt poor.