O, what a gilded mesh you have woven with your robbery; wrong thefts picked tenderly through the finery of literature. Bring your spoils to the craftsman and mend, and bend, a dress of mail to wear over your soft and tender poet's heart. Vagrant! You cowards know what a heinous sword you have made the inky pen, a traitorously singing lark. Writer, even you know what chaos and murder your wretched pen will start, and yet you must speak. You must write your truths, knowing they will be the match to burn pyres of living things.
What was your intent in the inking, for wretched was the scrapping away of the gleam of the world, the tearing away at magik; yet, still, you claim to be appreciative always of the verbal Sirens. Even as you murdered them, you were wooed by the sirens who sing and lure and truly convince us that we who are now mere and mortal men can still feel what immortal words have felt. Glory to the lasting language! For whilst the penning hand sat at last finally still, and rotted, as minds rotted, the words they inked breathe. The Ancients leave us wreaked with their wisdom!
Poet! Poet! Remember the Harpy, she who stirs us with dreams of flight, and dreams of lusty emotions, of feathery flighty battle and life! Harpies, poets, mere men who will pick our bones after we have fallen to our deaths. Small man, your ancient kin and blood, with their dissection of themselves, cut away their immortality and raped their own dreams. We were once a People, a Race. Now we are a fading dream.
Where is the phoenix to fly from the ashes of the fantastic!
Will the fawn and nymph sing over your temporal graves? Nay, for your spirits study a cold and lifeless corpse; saying, 'Yes, we are wise. All is as it should be." This is your crutch, this is your misdirected longing and loneliness. This is how you disguise your guilt. Your shame at being earth-bound, death bound. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Once, there were fawns, the spirits were there also, merry and dancing. Once, Man ruled.
Bring science to her knees, in sacred lore of heart and magic and the craftsmanship of the stars that we will die to believe. Bring science to her knees. Science killed magic; science tore the harpy in half, saying to one half, "Woman" and to the other half, "Bird." Science left the woman sinking in her breast for flight and the bird crying in its heart for love. Science killed dreamers and dissected dreams.
And yet, O and yet, it was that innocent curiosity to know the mechanism of miracle, it was that guileless wonder that gave this bitter poet's hand a pen, and said “You, now Philosopher.”
