I, Plutarch
born of silt and sand, flesh and man.
My feet upon the broken bricks,
stones and wits of the Lyceum.
With words I weep through pen or key,
characters inscribed by ink or light.
This duality,
Parallel lives-
creeps out through a familiar syntax,
diction defined.
That I, a man of this world,
toiling through introspective decline-
relishes opportunities to become immortal,
in either philosophies or lies.
I, Plutarch
search for heroes to arrive,
leading better men to a better time.
but, alas we are here-
trapped under pathetic waste,
gluttonous filth the great worm consumes,
the Cerberus within us all.
I, torn into three,
of man, of me and of machine.
Rise to conquer machination or beast,
slough of sinew and wire,
oil and blood-
filth of dual realities.
I, Plutarch
resign myself to this design,
that we know of no deities
that reign or define,
just what they are,
and how we’ve arrived.
I know nothing of the nothing,
yet clearly some substance,
of intellection and mind,
searches for heroes and gods,
to understand,
how to become immortal,
within these parallel lives,
of which I write,
until I die. |
Submission Name: I, Plutarch
