How will evil fall?
Shall it be ground underneath
Purely distilled truth?
Truth and good and right
And beauty cannot be stopped.
Many will have died–
For this, gladly die.
For truth is all that we have.
Truth, and nothing else.
All beauty and right
All goodness and all kindness
Come from perfect truth.
Distilled by reason
Distilled by our harmony
With the truth itself.
More tragic are those Gods who still remain.
Olympus fell; yet cast about Them thrice,
You’ve wrapped Them up in filthy sheets of ice;
And jeer that none will recognize Their Reign.
Though hidden in plain sight, so great remain
These Paragons of Beauty; Their Devices–
Their Sublime Creations–could entice,
Enlighten, and inspire, if Their Domain
Were not so hidden, frozen, and unclear.
Yet through your filth, such Gods might still be seen;
Though locked beneath a century’s demean.
If one unbidden eye should chance to turn,
A mortal soul might taintless beauty learn;
And this is what you meretricious fear.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
It appears that this
sequence will grow to four, and
may yet grow to five.
Here: more beautiful
than those upheld by liars.
Hidden in plain sight.
Next: the holy who
will never exist. At least
they will not be raped.
And who are you who rape my Gods when long
Have They returned to ash, and dust, and bone?
What right have you to dash Them, cruelly thrown
And bleeding, from the Heights where They belong?
And who are you ignoble beasts; you throng,
Who violate and scourge Them unbeknown,
Then take your turn upon each vacant Throne
While still They fall, unknowing, from this wrong?
Do you believe your acts are in the right;
As though belief could claim to sanction rape?
Or take you carnal pleasure in the night,
While horrified Their past devoted gape?
Or do you quake with fear while knowing well:
The least such lie will have you burn in Hell?
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
It’s more direct now.
I Like this version better.
Much more personal.
It now has the punch
I wish I could deliver
With my own two fists.
What is that light, now,
Raging from the east? A sun?
Many more will rise.
David Emeron: Sonnets 