To Emerson

It’s an Emerson, of course it is, to seek within the self to seek
Roaming unwild the idea that our minds are subject to reality
Scorn within a petty institution called society
Individuality disvalued by the whips of disapproving souls
But not a soul a mind a person of a privilege found in olden days
The minds of wretched European authors now unknown
In what is meant to be a corpus religiously exploited 

Quoting Shakespeare by the masses, Spinoza, Thoreau, Rousseau
Blindly following a base of followers created by a blinded bourgeoisie
In their traipsing minds diaphanous, obscure, enlightened
Spouting words of errantry, philosophy, cacophony
Pent up in their bureaus all alone without the sound of company
Spiralled deep, this lack of empathy, in the pits and depths of soul
Where no one can quite unmove them, the pillars of philosophy, pomposity
Hidden deep within the West

This discourse of a metaphysics we ask now to undermine
The greatest minds of sophistry and balladry
The leading thinkers of an era in a band of men together
Branded deep within with ideas of uproot — 
Yet tonight we apprehend a reversal of the populace
Wherein the populace with all ideas which they call ideas new
Have been butchered by the thought progressive of progressive thinking
To render thoughts now unoriginal of change
Beyond the point of apprehension where we may see them old again.