Choices waste themselves in prolixity, the dusts
Of propagation and abuse whose mission misaligns the niche
Wherein we dwell undisturbed but nothing more. The rich
Find paths no less rough-hewn; trust
Me, prairie dust will choke the delicate machine.
Nomenclature, its ideal lubricant, gives life to meretricious schemes
And notions and rust to any fine tuned mind. Notwithstanding reams
Of notes and mental reservations noted in the margins, still it seems
Like such a shame to waste a fine Mercedes
On a cornfield. Gather and surmise, but leave the ploughing to the John Deere,
Levelling and landscape to the Caterpillar, and  fear
Of people to the politicians; to the fox, his rabies;
To the gentle soul, serenities and the honour of his ordained station.
By faith and knowledge emotions breed, by certitude, pure elation.
A judicious pause, no more than what a second
Brings to contemplate the obvious
Confirms what is self-evident; in the common wager, the benefits of lust,
In learning, the risks of conscious knowledge, the need to reckon
What is right or true in what one must do.
So wonderful a tool as simple thought will set the soul
At rest and validate an afternoon. Goals,
Rewards, momentum’s fulcrum follows through
From all that’s gone before to where one must be.
Such benchmarks offer solace to practitioners of routine,
Confound the imposition of countless dreams
Of obligation, incidental norms, and all that only seems.
And we, like all philosophers and thinkers on the trot,
Must step aside and learn to live with what it is we’ve got.


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