Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Thus the merciless Will of Melchior -
Fallen Puritan,
Man of Faith
Man of Science,
Scriptural scholar
Polymath, reader, translator
Parser of faded texts and
Pursuer of that which
Without age
Without time
Without fade
Without faecal
Foundering, faltering, failing
Retains its shape and its
Purpose in this and past
Ages and those to come
That which moments and
Men hath no purchase -
Laid out his implacable
And iron purpose:

"That which the Truth can destroy
Ought, should, and shall be
Wiped out, expunged, extirpated
Taken by Time lifeless to
The lime-pit and the potter's field
Its dross washed into the gutter of
The rest of the filth of the
Mayfly world that wafts before
Our traitor eyes like the rising
Mists of a false and gloaming
Morning that, lit by a lying
Counterfeit orb, its spark having
Spilt, is swallowed once again by
The vast and lifeless abyssal dark."

Melchior was a branding-iron
And his heavy, red-hot mind
Tore through the wisps of
Whimsy and ignited the
Tissue-paper wrappings of
Theological well-wishings
And lit alight the airy
Understandings in every
Word of every book he
Chased the God of his
Fathers and the Truth of
His self-willing into which
He would forge the
Testimony of revelation
In all the books of his
Exploring, arguing
Questioning age
Hot-hammered upon the
Predestinate anvil of his
Unyielding implacable
Towering self-regard
And refusal to bend
His human Reason before
The excuse of the Leviathan
The example of the Adversary
The admonition of Job.

Melchior's last will and
Testament, its terms to be
Taken from its compositional
pulp, and printed upon a
Rare and terrible parchment
A vellum scraped from the
Expired flesh of his
Cooling corpse, the words
Of his hot heart painted
Palimpsest upon the hide
That held within it such
Spark that would not
Spare any tinder that
Flame might flash alight
Burn, burn all that
Fire might catch fire
Until every spider-web
gives up its snares
Until every cob-web fails
Rotted by time and
Torn by the
Turning of the truth.

This, the book in your
Human hand, hot from the
Heat of your beating
Heart, is the key-stone
Of a great and terrible
Temple to the Truth his
Fortune and Faith hath
Been pledged and placed
Dedicant, a vast Library
The ritual reliquary of
Inquisition and inquiry
Without guard, without limits
Without fear of heresy or
Any fire but that lit by
The flame of providence
An edifice built as a
Lighting-rod for the
True and eternal revelation of
That eventual bolt from the Blue.

Thus the echoing
Thundering beat of
Melchior's last Will and
Testament which has been
Placed here at the heart
Of the pyre of his dreams
Of God the Eternal
That Prodigal Father
For whom our hearts await
Like the fattened calf for
The celebratory feast-fire.

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