There is was--salvation--
On the edge of your mightier-than-a-sword,
On the pressed fibers of dried trees,
In the stain of your ink.
From the conclusions of your mind--
On the conclusions of nameless labor--
From work, salvation discovered.

Inductions into a different hall,
Not one of kings or queens or diversity's fame,
But of men and women whose effort,
Meant selfish reward and whose effort,
Made all others possible. And probable. And explicit.

Against the moral agnosticism and baseless whim-worship,
Against the spiritual tyrants and existential heathens,
Against we, us, them, and all was:
"I."--as complete affirmation, as existence/identity, as life.
"I am neither a happy pig nor a dissatisfied Socrates. Nor a nothing."
"I am Aristotle satisfied."


As far as potentially life-changing decisions go, this particular query was no more difficult than deciding what I should have for lunch. "I'll have the soup, please, with a side of smug satisfaction."

Or so I thought. Until the fourth day of contemplation.


In art, I can't maintain proportions. This is not a metaphor.