Sunday, 11 April 2010

The Clockwise Man

Gene machines, without a care,
Making a metaphorical snare,
Close eyes to all of importance,
Meaning lost in happenstance;
Pleasure of smelling a flower,
Being drenched in April shower,
Watching sunset upon the sea,
Marvelling at the honey bee,
Eating well-prepared meals;
Reductionism takes, steals
All that is: we will survive.
Pity those who so contrive,
Choose cunning as a way,
Never taken in, they say,
But blind to all of reality;
A child on a mother's knee,
Warm of fire burning bright,
A universe of such insight,
In which such love is kind,
But clockwise man is blind,
With microdot philosophy,
He wills himself not to see;
Small beauty with his doubt,
What life in part is all about,
These things made irrelevant,
So he declares in mad rant,
Boxing himself in all alone,
To what he thinks is known;
Four walls encased in white,
To draw upon as he thinks right,
His world, as he liked it be,
Ending alone, in lunacy.

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