The man resides in halls of dust
His mind, a cerebral periodical.
The web, his endless cyclopedic-toy,
That makes him positively giddy;
Amusement of infinite knowledge,
In which this sophmoric sage bathes.
He rejoices in a bland lack
Of real truth, it lies locked
Memory-file labeled: “Don’t Touch”.
No remembrance allowed–of words once heard.
As a child he had rejoiced,
In a small sense of peace,
“There is a God…I think.” he had said,
With child-like glee.
But that miniscule thought is now dead,
Under agnostic rules of rhetoric.
“No God, for me… I hope.”
A pale frown escapes from his busy, thin lips.
“I’m too good for that…Out, you crazy fear…
Where is that book? Oh good, it’s here….
‘My Philosophy of Death’….Ah, how enlightening!”
He blows aged dust and turns a page,
And forgets again, any thought of the God,
Who loves him still and who will
One day require from this small, desperate man
An answer for the life he was loaned–
Each thought, each act, each written word,
Each digitized, skeptic text he wove.
Shall we stay on empty paths,
Littered with the flawed thoughts
Of other cynical fools,
Like dead leaves on dust-footpaths
That criss-cross the avenue of the One Truth?
by Pamela Palmer
The Gospel of John 14:6
Please contact Pamela Palmer at