Nonsense Sonnet #8

[novapsyche]

Die, die to the old man! In with the new!
Tear down these rotted, hulking stones! We need
refurbished marble, statuesque milieu.

The old man whimpers; man, a running bleed
but flowing nowhere and for nothing. One
can only wonder why he should proceed

so slowly to the bosom of death. Run,
damn you, man, run to that death! The reward
is not the hereafter, but being One.

The new man knows this; indeed, it's his sword.
His mouth reveals the sheath of wisdom. He
baptizes with silence and the absurd.

The final man is Phoenix, plume aflame:
he lays bare vision no dead man can claim.