Chaos is a vice of little-reason, so too is a soldier’s
Treason, political slanting by the many tongues of its
Twisted fork, murder spewing from hot genocidal lands,
Religious crisis a sultry swamp of brackish morbidity.
Little-reason is a sickness and a plague,
Biased too is the smallish growing thoughts of sense,
Undoubtedly shrewd and clever is the birth of nonsense,
Always in a hurry for the pronouncements of our judgements.
Descartes’ gift of eidetic reduction lies here with us,
Awaiting our battered egos denounce of old ways.
This world has seen too much of pain and blood,
Results of his speedy rush to judge.
Uncouth and brute be the ways of rash thought,
Phenomena almost never is true reason,
Hold essence; pry out a tincture of its soul
And bygone be cold days of erroneous oversight
Things are never always the way they seem,
Evaluate by bits to learn the truth,
In harvesting lies the clear signs of how things are,
Wheat from chaff and wisdom be lurking there.
OHMSTON WETH (C) 2009