This backward world makes suffering a tool
whose pangs erode away mistaken views.
This agony itself becomes raw fuel
which fires pursuit to find one's Spirit's muse,
and set in flight the transcendental quest
to soar beyond the cess of frittered time.
The Soul's nobility decays as jest
and totem to the Golden Calf of slime,
when men forswear the gentle love of grace
to romp the sewers of their Ego's ooze,
as years dissolve in cloroform's embrace
and life, concludes a stupid brutal snooze.
So precious, the clean flame of learning's fire,
the petticoat of virtue is pure desire.