What Songs may be left?

​

when a voice, so strained, now flies,

from a prince, in a throne bereft

of all splendor, in such confides:

 

that Theology is only found

in the spaces, and hollows, between efforts and sorrows,

Whose dreadful tyrant hounds

so rip and shred all dreams of tomorrows,

 

for when men are brought low,

only then can wisdom bestow

what, still, seems useless to know,

when a heart, this crushed, desires to sow:

 

those seeds the inspired scatter

among Fields of grateful matter,

wherein tender notes in thankful blather

neglect all that’s dire, and becomes all the sadder:

 

with every such moment life dares to go on,

when all the prince wants, is to cease all Songs,

to cut a miserable tongue, and no longer put on

what masks, so heavy, are seen fit to prolong!

 

See, mere spiritual dreams are what most men see,

when a man seems to turn toward the sky,

but beyond this all, remains something quite free

of every such thought souls try to surmise:

 

that in pursuits, frustrated, souls come to learn

what spoils of life, are for blood not worth

all the striving and dying, in which men burn

for but a moment, or two, of transitory earth:

 

yes, earth! That is all even precious gems know,

since merely, rearranged, are matters of dirt in their glow,

and the same it is for man, who lives to show

all that is empty within, recycled in a row:

 

organized, and swift, with what appearances convince,

that even things, unimpressive,

may themselves dress anew,

and even darkness, submissive,

may still hide beneath the Hue:

 

of all, within the Act,

we see befitting to protract:

whatever, it is, that comforts and lacks

what dire, dear lessons we must learn, in fact:

 

that Life is a pact, and what pain can one claim?

when all of us, alike, sing together what is lame:

that even when a voice here tries to proclaim,

pure silence it finds, when ears, human, contain:

 

the countless, myriad, sordid screams

wherein sanguine flow the morbid dreams

of all who otherwise wished for what seems

to be logical things, for hearts to seize,

 

but these such things, seemingly common,

are made from the woes of flesh downtrodden!

the Whole world, in fact, is a babe sickly begotten,

where illusions, images salivate rotten!

 

when truthful, it is, to say it all rests on labor

of those who tire, and must remain forgotten,

to lower the rightful wages and value

these daily titans forge, in honor occulted.

 

When it rests not on that, then it thrives on war,

to drive the lot of impressionable minds,

to somehow excite what in youth so bores,

until explosions, and blood, the wise come to abhor!

 

Yes, these are the so-called logical Things

that eschewers of Theology prefer to boast

until their days of glory screech to a halt,

and then humility is forced upon a rocking boat

 

in Seas, so they swell, to crash her ashore,

but all the men’s pride keeps her away,

for the land of truth men cannot adore,

and prefer, instead, to eternally sway!

 

All this, not our prince, of a throne bereft,

could anymore chase, or wish to lust,

since it all rings hollow, as the soul unkempt

in a civilized gloss, singing falsely, it must!

 

Instead, he shall trade, what for the rest makes mad

that divine human spark, meant instead for what’s sweet,

for all that is noble, difficult, and sad,

and from this, he will die, where his

 

Maker, shall meet.

 

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “The Theologian”, 12-09-25

 

© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith