Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave
A paradise for their Lumpen.
Contempt-blinded to
Imagination's game with Memory, and the
Insistence of Insisting Gene, they treat
Of us as darkrooms into which the senses
Admit the only thought provoking light.
From cold Olympus they notice not
The Contrarian that grows within the Individuating Individual;
Unseen by these frozen-eyed gods, Man.
Presently into our world the Fanatics
Deliver of themselves their bitter black schemes,
Dissolving all precious human attachments with
Corrosive and ill-gotten Gold.
Enticed by their antic celebrations of Smallness,
We become small.
And what ho our politic Champions!
Sorry warriors, charmed by the Fanatic offer of
Shared godhood, with
Eloquent chains they arrest effectual Manly defense.
Thusly has night fallen; we, hands bound,
In the Flux left sinking to swim.
Stir Poet! Rouse thy powers to shatter our fetters;
Though become termite-small we can
Encouraged grow to Man-size; 'Tis thy calling.
Fanatics have their dreams -- Stir Poet! --
Grant them sempiternal sleep, that
Man from death darkness may rise and
Beauty awaken.