No cleric can surpass the king
No, not even in democracy.
The fiefdom is set, as the cook
Makes Metalcore, and lives 
His worst life now.

Was not DaVinci a clerk?
Say we had more freedom then
Than we do now?

The modern Feudalism is set,
As the Wokies march in order,
Ushering in Communism.
The new generation rises,
One with the royal cavalcades
And the flying chariots...
The peoples worship them as gods.

Science is magic
And no man,
Whose own grandfather
Used to dig a hole in the ground
Can rise to the ranks of Poet Laureate;
No not in this day.

The Laurel sings her rage,
That Boomerang can kill her
The minute she fires her Pineapple;
Though she wants to fight for her freedom,
Yet the mass graves shall be the cost.
Republicans in their rows,
Mowed down by machines and not men;
Waging their wars with Bow and Knife.

Yes, you crowned emporer,
This is a new generation...
One where you rise above all
In glutted fest, and say "I AM".
Crown the Empire,
The ashes of all I love are destroyed,
For to fight is futile.

So, let me die if I must.
And my Blood shall kindle the flame
Like Polycarp, and in Peace
Freedom shall persuade and win.

He's written my story from start to finish. 
My name is"Broom Tree on a Hill Crown Newpeace";
With my brillo head.
I decided to be a writer from the start,
So progressed into Poesy.
Southey and Coleridge wished to come to my reigion
---the Susquehanna valley---
in order to create a "Pantocracy", 
I write in a style similar to them
And also began writing with utopian visions. 
Not only that, Longfellow---America's finest poet---
Had married a woman named "Mary Storer Potter", 
And my best friend has a same last name.
So, there's definitely evidence of God working in my life, 
Particularly, to lead me into my profession, and also to my work. 
None of that could have been coincidental.

I am by no means a mathematician.
However, when I come to P = NP---
Dazzled by the complexity of the equations---
I look at each equation like a shape.
As if each equation represented a simple shape;
Or, even a very complex shape.

In my limited exploration of geometry,
I know a few very basic things.
One cannot take the shape of a Right Triangle,
And use the Pythagorean T heorem
To explain an Isosceles. 

And seeing that NP and P 
Can be reduced to this principle,
At its most basic level,
The most fundamental thing to learn
From this system, is that we CANNOT
Generalize a rule for all shapes.
We cannot, for instance, 
Call an equation a polynomial
If it has three dimensions, for example.
If there is a cubed variable,
The equation no longer is a Polynomial.

I think people approach the problem
From the angle of where I approached
Pythagorean Theorem.
It seems intuitive,
To think the proof lies
In the hypotenuse being like a split
Of a quadrilateral. 
But, that is not why it solves.
It seems possible...
Even very likely,
To where you'll be duped into thinking it.
But, upon keen observations,
And studying the equations,
You find it cannot be so
As it would break down equalities.

So, also, I think NP equaling P
Would be the same notion,
Of it seeming inuitive,
That a solution can be made.
But, generally, what's intuitive can be deceptive,
And what's more, you cannot define
The Pythagorean Theorem for a Circle,
Any more than Pi would apply
To a Square.
Sure, one can make equal anything,
But by means of deduction,
There is no way outside of empirical observation
To determine a shape, and how the laws
Of objective space apply to it.
Adding the dimension of time
Further complicates that, and makes even more complex shapes,
Which I believe, its geometry, must be studied independently 
For each individual problem.
Much like the philosophers would study shapes
To determine axioms ond principles.

Thereby, one must study the shapes
And derive new axioms for each individual shape.
And possibly, that will be the occupation of many brilliant men.

It's the proverbial Squaring of the Circle.
The limits of Coefficients in a system,
Which would create NP, cannot always
Be described by P, due to the limitations on geometry.

I fell in love with you.
You became my obsession.
My Beatrice. My Amélie.
You became my idol. Yes, you.
In your blue dress, I saw you
With such godly joy. Like being
In the presence of God.
I must confess it was very strange.
But, I break that yoke for another.
A lighter yoke, that of my Friend.
For calling out to you at night,
It never once saved me. But Christ did.
You are a phantom, who I don't know.
But, I do still believe I will be married to Zion
In the eternal abode I shall one day visit.
I do say, if in life I am alone, it is the one thing which could make it worthwhile.

In a dream, or a vision,
I was cleaning up my life.
My mother, my dear mother,
Was apathetic in her strife.
She would not pick up a broom,
She would not make haste.
So, I left upon my dream
For I could not tell if I, she hates.

Then, upon my bed, I saw a youth who was from my past.
I lay upon my bed, with my Pound Puppy at my breast.
And there was she, for whom I loved,
And my worst fear was seen
A nightmare had succumbed me
And I learned she was a fiend.

Then, at last, we were careening out of control.
I had no lover, I had no friend, so "Amarisa" I told
Shouting it, shouting it, "Amarisa" I did.
The truck crashed, and it killed all my friends.

Then, I woke in an asylum for the insane.
I thought I was on a movie set,
I found it all very strange.
I ran for the door, warning all of my insight.
A nurse had tackled me, and then "Jesus" I had cried.
I crawled upon the floor, I inched my very way
Ev ery painful movement, I cried "Jesus" all the way.

At the last, I came to the end, it was a mall with open door;
A stadium was filling with children, who saw me in my state so poor.
Yet, at the end, I reached up for that door,
A voice said, "Brandon, open," and I opened up the door.
At that moment I woke from the horrid vision my mind aroused,
And I renounced that idol "Amarisa", and wrote this verse profound.
Only one name under heaven, I found tonight is true.
It is the LORD Jesus, and I come to caution you.
If by my writing you feel blessed, it is because it's song
Made for that one and only savior, not for Amarisa wrong.
Yet, do not worship---it is a tricky verse---
That Daughter of Zion, of which I'm well rehearsed.
It is just a fancy, a strange and idol thought...
Yet it shall remain, for Jesus I have taught.

There is only one name, that saves a man or child,
There is only one name, that can save murderer or pedophile,
Or rapist, or theif, or blasphemer or Jew,
Or Gentile, or Greek, and not a number very few....
It is that man named Jesus, who died upon a cross.
Let no accursed cult spring from me, for now I know the cost.
I proclaim one Name, that is Jesus Christ my God...
Any other name proclaimed, leads one to the lost.

Trump is on trial.
He reads "Before the Law"/
He doesn't understand it
But I do.

One door, made for him,
One law, made for him,
One gatekeeper---
Just like all of us it seems,
It will be one day,
A law made for each man
And a sentence just as absurd.
And one man piously sits,
Unquestioning, for it is the matter
Of the State that this solitary law
Be followed, and so with every other man
His own solitary Law
With no rhyme or reason
Than the very fact that it is.

Vile things are in every culture.
Vile things are in every time.
Today, it is mutilation of children.
Yesterday, it was chattel slavery.
Tomorrow, who knows?

The obdurate child gets taken from his home.
Stiff necked, and unapologetic, he'd rather
Be placed in foster care, to avoid his parents.
They don't want him to be permanently changed.

The men and women, walking in their rows
Of chains, shackled together, blood dripping down their backs,
A whip cracking, and a husband and wife torn apart
With the screaming infant between their arms.

What gross thing will tomorrow bring?
What invasive disease of the mind will it infect us with?
What horrible thing, will normal and sane individuals
Believe is right? The fact of the first thirty years of my life
Was that we had finally gotten it right,
And didn't have any of this. What a shame things went so awry.

The tares, from their infancy,
Are sown into black soils,
And there they grow with 
Instruments of anarchy.
They stab, they fight,
They poison, they kill,
With the dagger, with the fist,
With the chalice, with the sword;
Every object in their home is cursed.
They fly upon their broomsticks,
They dance nude and enter one another;
They only allow the poets who are naughty
To be spoken in their ancient Golden Era.
And to them, it is joy, the hellish stress,
For they remember their Garden of Earthly Delight.
And they wish to once more bring this age
To fruition, now that Christianity had abated that hell.
Do not acquiesce. Fight with words, and slay the dragon
With the breath of our peaceful prosperities.