Wrote this piece for a character of mine I've written many, many times before in my series, Jack Lynch. It's a brief, subtle analysis of his motivations for his misanthropic perception of people. You don't need to have read my stories to understand what Jack is; the information is self-contained in this work.

The poem is in the style of an ode written by Algernon Swinburne if you were curious; I stuck with his rhythm scheme and I think his tone suits Jack. Anyway, hope you enjoy, and, as always, leave any constructive criticism.

Thumbnail is a pre-sketch from  Werewolfsense for a commission of mine in-progress. Although the facial effect is backwards, the effect, I think, was the best to accompany this poem.

An Ode to Wanderers in Dark by Brian Colfxire

Of substance, of merit, of futures within,
We alone leave to rethink the possible,
We descend into scrutiny of ourselves,
Wanderers in dark.

Immune from ideals of perfectionist lies,
We question even the foundations we rise,
We cast doubt beneath what the light obscures,
And grope for answers.

To the righteous, they mock us when we persist,
"You play with shadows; we know what is the truth."
What do they really know without the deceit
That we're only blind?

To the scientist, no theory before fact;
To the artist, no tact with an omission;
To the wanderer, no beliefs are higher,
No reason absurd.

---

And who am I but one of many fictions,
And what buried pasts matter to present speech?
Everyone calls me Jack or some other name,
The rest is phooey.

Immortality, the passion yearned by men
Who know not they carry on a false dream.
But, I, alone am the product of these genes,
Living on their speech.

Once we wanderers, not far from memory,
Were invocated to song and to be praised.
But then our names were made into heresy
By docile men.

They thought me a misfit, an error from high,
They shunned me for millenniums' as conscience.
For the gifts I gave to enlighten questions,
Earn them fame, not mine.

Not I, but my predecessors, complacent,
Continued this symbiotic extortion.
We remained demonized, until one called Freud
Made us natural.

I, Jack, born a relic from all dead men's lies,
Know now what defacement you all created.
I share this information, not to you, but
The Jack inside you.