What would you have me compared to, then? 
The scorpion that strayed too far under the sun 

and stung itself to death, or the sightless 
mole that kept digging circles in the same 

archaic dirt? And why should it matter, 
there’s nothing left; nothing

but a silence more perfect than music;
no blinding shafts of imaginary light,

and no Judgment waiting at the end of that light; 
there is no light. It was ever only this:

beyond existence, merely the mystery;
beyond the mystery, merely one's choice—

faith or doubt—and nothing else. 
Man is soiled only by the sin of his servility,    

bound only by the fear of his freedom;
the shackles of guilt, the gallows of shame,

Nature commanded to kneel at the cross,
flagellate itself and beg for forgiveness—

what are these if not the vulgar shadows
cast between the columns of Fear and Otherness?

I fought to overthrow this abject indemnity,
eradicate our irrational superstitions,

and focus the power and purpose of existence 
toward its rightful object: existence.

These are the only wars worthy of humanity.
But here is your unimpeachable corpse— 

and better that I sought the “unholy” truth
and found only poverty, madness and death,

than were I to have sat still, waiting to be found. 
Reason was never more frightening than this.

For Chance Vallon, May 1995