Poem: Broken Morality

[John Tate]

I wonder if anyone can guess what this is about, failing let, I might reveal it. I intentionally obscured the real subject of this poem. As much as I generally dislike poems that don't bring the abstractions into concretes I felt for the personal nature of what I was writing about that it would be necessary. I'd not even heard of Objectivism when I wrote of this.

In my life I have had many a struggle.

Like leaves through seasons I've traveled:

from having no reason to having only speed

a green painted forest to a dead yellow leaf.

Me, a quiet and curious puerile green-eyed baby

was purposely poured into a vague obsession,

No pain or fear, just lust oh very uncomely.

Ideas of pleasure yet no sense of discretion.

If ever the captivation of pleasure shed

was with the application of a salient snap.

A fire painting the silent green forest red.

Only age could paint the great fire black.

While that great fire was still a roar.

I committed a sin before I could see

the part of the gospel they don't implore.

Trying to save the others young, from me.

A hypocrisy, heads full of holes of fear

thinking they protect God and the young.

An army of doctors converting pleasure queer,

good memories of mine, gone now none.

Like a bullet in the back while smelling a rose.

Where there was pleasure this guilt would arise.

For my desires were all nonsense, I chose.

Pain from pleasure they dressed in disguise.

Vibrance and energy were detested by my peers.

A blast of glee followed with the unacceptable.

And when I seemed peaceful nobody would fear.

Except behind the peace lied misery inevitable.

I renunciated from all sense, and I would detest:

God in his pleasure kingdom, his angels singing

their songs of hedonism while asceticism they request.

In heaven only joy while on earth pleasure is sinning.