A Journal for Western Man-- Issue IX
G. Stolyarov II
His theories they�d shun, at his science poke fun,
At the altar with obsequy cringing.
They�d claim he had no brain, needing not to explain
While on vacuous sophistries binging.
But one day he did dare to the cosmos declare
�I have found a new Natural Law!�
And the others did tremble, in council assemble
On his insights a curtain to draw.
�Such disgrace he has shown! Never shall we condone
Insects thinking that they�re in control!
Why does question his mind, when all norms are defined?
He must languish in jail sans parole!�
And his books they did burn and his study upturn
But there was the thinker not found.
In the field he did stand, with a sextant in hand.
�Won�t you join me?� he asked, then was bound.
He was strapped to a rack, �till his bones showed a crack.
They demanded his mind to renounce
All the laboring nights and discovery�s plights,
Else a halberd on his neck would pounce.
In the torture room tied, he, yet dauntless, replied,
�What is sacred�s already appeared.
There is nothing I need from the men I don�t heed,
And the truth you shall never have smeared.�
�For what matters is not, as you humble folks thought,
The collective�s brutes letting you grovel.
Here reality reigns, and conformity�s chains,
But bind you to your ancestors� hovel.�
�If I cannot progress, then I shan�t life possess,
And you think you�ve reversed that condition.
You have but placed my mind in a grave double bind,
Wrecking life to allay superstition.�
�You have stifled no foes, your own prospects did close,
For my guidance your lives could sustain.
You despise my worldview, for it does not let you
Blind, unthinking witch dogmas retain.�
�I view man�s role as grand, but you loathe such a stand,
For you lie parasitically low.
And, sadistic for pain, with blood this world you stain,
Drained from those from whom wisdom should flow.�
�But my place is secured; yours shan�t have long endured
After your age of corpses expires.
You, who but follow, your legacies hollow
Will dissolve on your funeral pyres.�
Scarlet, steaming, enraged, public burnings they staged,
Books and author to char near each other.
Then the populace saw how he used his new law
All the flames within moments to smother.
He walked into the crowd, head held high, posture proud,
And he spat in his torturers� faces.
Then to practice his art he did promptly depart
To remote and hospitable places.
And the children today see his portrait and say,
�That�s the man who Inferno did tame!�
And the methods he�d found through the ages resound,
Divine glory bestow on his name.
Insects long now have preyed on bones, putrid, decayed.
Of his tormentors mere skulls remain.
But the muses of thought him to Pantheon brought,
Where his soul, clad in learning, does reign.
G. Stolyarov II is a science fiction novelist, independent philosophical essayist, poet, contributor to Enter Stage Right Internet Magazine, writer for Objective Medicine, and Editor-in-Chief of The Rational Argumentator. He can be contacted at [email protected].
CLICK HERE TO RETURN TO THE MAIN INDEX.