Then there are times

when the will to abandon course

overwhelms

the thin stream of reason,

thwarted without let by ever new

sophistries of cul-de sac.

What energies the custodians

of unreason pack.

Yet, what is new about this lament?

I reach back

To that first dour of Urban Naxals

Of ancient Greece—

A mentor of the name of Socrates—

and, askance at the tenacity of argument,

lash body and mind

to further assays of rational intent.

I see that battered remains of ancient bone

Still ooze a cussed refusal of the killer stone

that vicious centuries of blood have thrown

to block the persistence of ask,

ripping mask after mask after mask

with the fine blade of disrobing skill

that often bests the bludgeon still.

But, turning inward, near death’s door,

The wonder remains about the after and before.

Are there only circles? Is there no line

that leads to some ultimate divine?

Must reason remain a faith without proof

Of a source, however aloof?

What unknown purpose do

The sun, the sea, the forest, the cloud

For the berserk heart and mind shroud?

Will, when everything dissolves, a voice

Be heard, unmitigated and loud?

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