The Anachronisms of the Past

The anachronisms of the past restrain

Like tensile strands that pull the puppet back.

An atavistic being we retain

Who waits for every weakness to attack

The reaching spirit breaking through the shell

That holds our ignorance and lassitude,

Reminding us that in this mortal cell

Imprisoned we are free though an interlude

Of specious dreaming and a mindless one

Is thought of Right and Truth and earth reborn

Beneath dead stars and a slowly dying sun.

All draws down to entropy and worn

And tired are the credos we have heard

Of Gods and angels, hierarchic modes

Of being and a Paradisal Word.

What then is human destiny but codes

Of death and dissolution in empty space?

Is there an inner life that might console

Or beauty seen in an eternal face

And words that might illuminate the soul?