Books whisper,
savants listen
To the hushed warnings of days past,
Knowing that a world is formed with each exhale,
With each stroke,
each impression.
Yearning for the enlightening kiss
of days gone by.
Knowing that a wispy brush
can open eyes

Savages jeer,
thinking only materialistically:
Feints formed from simply elements and plants past,
No more than ink or paper.
Meer ideas meant only to destroy,
not realizing the mangling and miming
occurring within their every beings.

Oh, Hippocrates!
Relieve the hypocrites of this ailment:
abominable pride and transgressions.
Stand back, Steinbeck!
Forget nicotine; numbing ignorance
would have surely dubbed your heart.

Where is the end?
Undoubtedly The End?
Or will a brave soul stand
to free these idiots?