As Yet Untitled

As time creeps onward, men grow colder,

Soaring ever higher on wings of wax we chase the wind.

Ozymandias’ folly lay in graven immortal aspiration,

Tho’ left, eloquently set more firmly than any stone edifice,

The muse of ancients; wisdom, mores stewardship,

Fanning the flame sewn upon nature, harbinger of logos.


Even as the heirs of this priceless foundation,

Raise ever higher the spires of achievement,

The swill of words leave the looters’ lips,

Sophists’ tendrils to brand with feigned righteousness,

Condemning to serfdom the torch bearing pillars.


With hubris they raze aiming to birth morality anew,

The depravity of indulgence without purpose.

If there ever hath been a time, Lord Yahweh,

Show us the way, that time is today,

As Sophist’s hands beat plowshares into swords,

Shine perishing Republic, shine.

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