I am a tragic poet. We have fiery wings, crafted in heaven and set aflame in hell, and the harder we beat them, striving with all our soul’s desire for high Truth, the more we fan the flames. I am Keats. I am Byron, and Shelley, mad with love for beauty, mad with desire for wisdom, angry at the world for being dirty, stupid and petty, frustrated by sickness, misfortune and other distractions from the noble appreciation of the good. I was a made poet for my early life, until I reached a mature age; I no longer regard evil as evil in itself, but a misjudged goodness. Having found an herbal tonic to sooth the flames of my passions, I have lost that tragic necessity and lost cause of striving after the mysterious remedy; I have no frantic hurry to arrive. I enjoy as much as I can, and aspirin dulls the pain, antibiotics heal the body, poverty is unknown to me and I am (no longer) scorned in love. I have no need, no unsatisfied longing, suffering, quest for Truth and Meaning. I am content. And yet, only stop a day’s herbal soother, and my mind is on fire again, a furnace of energy, driven, tense, my fist violently clutches my pen and I scribble my thoughts down for hours, I read, absorbing thousands of pages, for weeks on end. When I was young I made a promise, Truth over contentment, wisdom over happiness. Since then I’ve sought to undue that promise, no longer willing to suffer tragedy. I refuse it. I will not allow it…And yet, I have a purpose not of this world; this I know. I am a voice, a bard, a prophet. Something is speaking through me, pouring through my body, melting myself down and becoming, becoming. My own self says, “leave it! They are all fools, and the fools will always win, for they are more.” There is no good in warning, in prediction. Will they stop being foolish? Never. If only there was a smart pill; perhaps their faith is like my herb, it comforts and soothes, but quit it for a day, and wisdom would again seek them out and nourish their brittle roots.