Thought

Without the worship sung by man to Thought,
Would empires burn, could kings be overthrown?
Remote Philosophy can come to naught.

Idealism riled us as we fought;
It could be more than blood that She'd condone,
Without the worship sung by man to Thought.

Charisma, both His faces burning hot,
Ensures the surest yearns that he were stone.
Remote Philosophy can come to naught.

Regret, with torpid terror that she wrought,
Could not reduce our hymn to lifeless drone,
Without the worship sung by man to Thought.

Despair ensues when noble men are bought;
Can meek Despair sit man upon the throne?
Remote Philosophy can come to naught.

Intangibles destroy the world we sought,
Would that life's fabric never come unsewn,
Without the worship sung by man to Thought.
Remote Philosophy can come to naught.


Jonathan Cornell, 1996
Reno, Nevada


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