Sierra Sciences, LLC – Cure Aging or Die Trying

I was pleased to see that Sierra Sciences’ Website has entered the 21st century along with their technology.

Sierra Sciences, LLC – Cure Aging or Die Trying.

I came upon the site of Russell Boyle and was reminded of this company by reading this classic by Dylan Thomas which he posted:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  • Dylan Thomas

Sonnet: Utopia

O Let us rant, O young, for soon we die,
Too old to matter, let us have our say;
For soon enough, your will your hand shall try;
Time cometh soon that might you have your day.

If you succeed, you’ll not respect the dead,
But jeer and mock us all within our graves;
But old are we, who’ve seen so many tread,
And end, as ill, their chosen path as slaves.

So time and time again, your plans will fail;
But ne’er will you remember how we warned;
By then, our warning will to no avail;
Nor, of us, memory, but were we scorned.

If honest, you would scorn yourselves as well;
Deep down, this brave new world, you knew were Hell.

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Sonnet: Lost

Here! the poet’s immortal spirit take.
Though long I have betrayed its inner voice,
And wrote, instead, of love, indeed of choice.
I preached the lie of joy. And though I wake

At night to dreams so horrible they make
Me scream for mercy to a God whose Joys
I shall not ever know; could I rejoice
In some God’s misery for His own sake?

I criticized that fool; yet I am he.
The very fool who lives with naught but grief.
My shallow, poet’s soul shall always be
A measure of society’s belief.
I’ve fought this ugly truth to my last breath;
With nothing to look forward to, save death.

Sonnet: Shrug

If Atlas’ Eyes were burning from our stain
Of  festering foul collectivization;
Shrieking of our dehumanization,
Bloody streamt His Ears with piercing pain;

His Arms, and Knees, and Shoulders, bled with strain
With the weight of our dying population;
Retching! from the stench of our starvation;
Weakening Resolve! at our disdain

For men who build; who might, His Burden, ease.
So, would ye dare to task Him; “Hold Thou, Muse!
One moment more, ’til we depose these smug,

“Self-righteous beasts!  No more! shall we appease
Esurience’s philanthropic ruse!”?
Or fear our thousand-years, and bid Him “Shrug!”?