The Philosopher's Error

It is for the love of wisdom that sets you right,
And all her fruits that exhibit might.
She's a desirous maid for those of the North,
While southern fools bring excuses forth.
Those animals: They indulge their deepest pleasure,
Pontificating that it is the medium measure.
"It is our nature!" the sly ones say,
And the initial moments they might be gay.
But guilt creeps in by the day's end,
So all that is left are the shells of men .
They dash towards ruin, they dash their minds;
The unholy marriage, the pleasurable kind.
But us: Oh me, I have not lost my way,
For the next logical step leads no one astray.
Join me where all have read and have written,
The problem of pain where one might be bitten.
I am sufficient because I have made myself thus,
Not given to emotion or the passions of lust!
I have ascended to where all men have sought,
But I can't help but think of the grave where I'll rot.

By Evan Gunn Wilson