The True Truth Speaks to the Deafness of the Sky
The crisp flight of birds,
Justifies a faith based on physical motion,
Would they fall?-
Maybe into the explosion of infinity,
Four trillion light years down,
Where there is no sun to shine-
And no air to sing against.
There is a belief in sustaining,
Holding back the terror
The stench of human dilapidation.
Yet force- in a world at odds with itself.
Prevents a people- a species- that needs to be united in more ways than ever before.
Maybe the sickness of the program of the current day,
Is the fact that it cures false illness,
Feeding fat stomachs and emptying the plates of the poor.
This world is enough,
For the bird-
For the sky-
But not enough for greed or the human race,
Not enough for Coca-Cola and nuclear waste.
Victor Vinni: The Life of an Objectivist
Born bald and blue,
In the mist of a summer's morning,
When the sun had just began to change the sky from midnight black to navy.
The installment of freedom was not a gift,
A royal right for common men.
There was no control over the birth,
Only chemical compulsion- The chaos we call love.
The adrenal rush of sugar and pheromones,
Shared from one body to the other.
There are voices that speak only for sound's sake,
Saying nothing as if it were the meaning of all life,
Confined to one mouth without a body.
There is not and there is.
No room to sublimate or transcend from the physical to the ought,
There is no time for moral confusion,
In a wreckage of human history.
I am an individual, Victor Vinni -
And life is mine,
An object I observe and take part in.
My emotions are mine, not reality's,
Happiness is a possession of property- No trespassing
Keep your religion, government, and guns in your domain
Or I will conquer you-
For I know the individual in me isn't the individual in you,
And if you are unable to accept that,
You have committed a logical abomination that will rob you,
In the darkness of your unknowing assumptions.
Letters to American
Chance is only the fate of the determined,
If it happens to you,
Then it was meant to be…
But life wasn't meant to just be,
Living takes more than proof,
More than imperial notations,
Words, syllables- symbols,
That build buildings and destroy men…..
The question is a simple mark,
Denoting the passage of thought.
Answers only found in the recession of cells and epistemological parts.
Cause the cause to extend a hand to causation,
A bother in logical thought
God- the unanswerable enigma
Divorced from the family altogether.
Was there one or many just like you,
Who can count the infinite generations,
Those that feed, breed, and die.
Looking to nothing for the answers to everything.
Flora De Vivas
To put to end
Death-
The smell of old daisies,
Heads bent,
Stems limp.
To subject to pain,
Life-
Wild flowers,
Configured in absurd growth.
To infect
Learning-
Phototropic movements,
Leaning to the light.
To show,
View-
Green multi-sprigs,
Exposed to the elements.
To greet,
Being-
Noticed by the passing crowd,
Forgotten with seasons.
To sin,
Human-
Appalled by shades of white,
Red and black.
To object,
Thinking-
Placement of not so permanent roots,
Likely to change.
To disbelieve,
Skeptic-
Ridden with the woes,
Gilded by weeds of doubt and lies.
The Dear Truth
Damage done,
In plots of green grass,
Candles bright and dim.
How can one recover,
Graves that are gone,
Sunk and resurfaced.
There are angles in the dark,
Dreaming of humans in heaven's light,
Numb of reality.
We are powerful,
Gods with heads so full,
Stomachs empty and tight.
Swearing to the spirits,
Liquid relief,
Hard and soft.
Forgotten but never lost,
Relieved but completely depraved,
Counting infinity on the back of a hand.
Made to hit,
Yet too passive to move,
Gone, but not too far to travel.
There is a truth we must unravel,
In threads of worn connection,
Blessed and damned.
Here in time,
Reversed and inverted,
Disfunctional salvation.
(Copyright - All Rights Reserved by Shannon L. Pugh - No reproduction without express permission from the author)
Table of Contents
Letter to the Author:
Shannon L. Pugh at Aquarius0020@aol.com