An Ode To you all giving up

I hear from some, 

that this is dumb,

to keep minds numb.

And, to surreal succumb.

A pit of reality

not quite there

A slit of duality

of man nowhere.

I read it once and I read it twice and I read it thrice before.

My eyes had decided this pursuit was vice,

Weak, unfruitful, pathetic, and near-impossible to slice, old as northern gneiss,

And always with it, the variety and spice,

of life that wants not another to write.

Verse and prose and all else penned

authors and poets, useless in the end.

What have they? Not built phones nor planes nor trains nor grown grains

Not erected towers, not conquered beasts, not baked bread, not cooked the feast,

A world in need of change, and even if the pen might beat out the sword,

but to the gun and the currency, language is simple: just bending the word

of rules and constraints created once to communicate,

not to stylise nor dream nor linger in self-hate...

Earth dies and it might be that they cry, loudest, perhaps

but what has sobbing done for the problem of collapse?

Collapse of humanity, but collapse of humans too,

These are not ideas here explored new.

Philosophy to some, to write, to draft,

to tell tales of laughter and tears,

But what has philosophy beside the place of physics?

Only the heritage of once natural speculation,

And in lieu of these here stated fears,

put down your pens, do not tap your keys,

it is all meaningless, so stop and let me win.