Thursday, March 22, 2018

A Wistfulness Towards Ivy

The professor knows
What fools we would make him become
As the fire of our minds would burn through his papers
And our watery eyes deny him voice,

So he opts for the con:
That you, dear student,
Know nothing,
Just like Plato!

Incoherent theories
In unintelligible words
Are the only remainder

Nothing else is what it means,
No logic can survive
Inevitable inquisition,
Mind the Titan always eats its young.

It's easier to leave the children
With nothing but the dream,
For who can hang with history,
Its permanence of error?

Who'd track the clues to what must be unknowable
And convince the priests such tracings
Be preserved, their fragile shoots continued
In the hope that one day we may be less wrong?

The free market of the streets absorbs it all
Without a footnote.
They call it movement,
What it does,

The carving up of that which needs to be heard
To make it something mortal,
Its error unrecorded,
Its holiness implied not merely refuted.

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