A thousand thoughts are borrowed--
No, a million--as I read Emerson
Talk about Shakespeare.
"Were his lines borrowed?"
Nay, only his themes. That's what Emerson means.
And why not? Fruitful mind,
It is ejaculated once more,
"It is the logos!" and from that
We find an accumulation of knowledge
Of men standing on the shoulders of Giants
Finding wild grasps at truth.
Yes... I evangelize... yes it is a Pilgrim's Progress...
But joyful hope, that there is great learning
And great mysteries to comfort the people.
That Christ, as Lewis said, should be come to
Like one might come to a Foreign Myth
With such wonder at the man Christ Jesus...
Not any other thing... just that man I point to
And now understand, He is my rabbi and no other.
All things of Emerson, all things of Shakespeare
All things of Ptahhotep, all things of Muhammad
All things of Ovid and Homer and Virgil
And my courses on logic, and literary theory,
All things of John Green and Jordan Peterson
And my Dad, and my friends, and my beloved enemies 
---What lessons should I take from them?---,
And my college and grade school professors and their lectures,
They are brought to Him, and then inquired at the altar
"What use shall I make of them?"
And Christ gives me the form...
And if I be a poet, it is that muse alone, so I sing it.

No soul, the brain is a soul...
Religion is just red and black sand...
Mesopotamian Deities were Chaotic
Egyptians orderly.

I'd simply say,
"The soul is not the mind, but the essence of why we have our moral worth.
"Christ lived, and died, and witnesses attested that He raised from the dead.
"They also died believing He literally ate with them, and walked through walls
"After He came back from the dead.
"Hammurabi's Code migrates through Egypt,
"And so does a dozen other stories
"And then an Egyptian Royal pieces those together in Genesis
"After crossing Neiwebu beach, and Pharaoh Amenhotep's whole army is destroyed
"And there they still lie on the ocean floor."

Speak in inexactitudes, oh lay people.
Speak your melodies and affects
Not with words, but with good cheer
And good hearts. Speak, and love
One another. I see no other language
Better, than this.

Oh, slayer of Baal, you are not real.
Aeon, great charioteer of fire,
The Gnostic God who fought Jah...
Born from a rock and not a virgin...
Christ was a real man, like Pythagoras.
You are merely an invention of Persian delusion.
Exodus was a real crashing wave which killed Pharaoh's Army
At Neiwebu Beach, and there the bodies still lie.
The Flood was a real event, that destroyed
The world in the Mid 24th Century BC.
You... you are merely Sin. Another iteration of him;
A metamorphosis of the bull into a dark eyed 
And withered armed shepherd.
A god of Masons. Not a God of Christians.

He flew to work today,
In a car like a Kestrel.
Jets blew air over a nebulous bottom
Which moulded and formed through a mat
Controlled by hydraulic fluid pushing and pulling
By mechanical force;
It hovered in mid space, and then zipped forward,
The jets shooting
Around the cushion to make flight.
Little fins steered it with pinpoint accuracy.
They glide for long distances,
Making full use of all energy like an albatross.
The chemistry is perfect, utilizing
All of it through leverage,
Which lifts a two ton boulder by a 200 pound man.
The solar panels on the home were a tank of ether
With a magnifying glass at the top, that span the ether over spinets
That produced electricity,
And recycled it endlessly.
Dozens of these things produced electricity
Which gave the jets' cushion on the bottom of the craft
And let it lift, and there fly through the air.

We'll never have it. Because this reality is only fantasy.
The minds of eejits 4,000 miles away cannot conceive of a future
That isn't manpower in the mud, and ploughing with barn animals.
So, every comfort they scorn, and every advancement they don't understand.
"It is flowery words."
And DaVinci made working flying machines too.

A cantankerous young man
Who is actually not so,
Scorns righteous living
And also what God loves.
He  comes upon your with forced words;
He has no charity or love, but loves to curse.

I dealt with him once, and once was enough.
Next time I talked with him, I saw he had no love.
A boisterous and raucous and unmerciful chap.
I just sent him on his way, with a little pat on his rack.

I watched a butterfly, its opalescent blue
And body the size of a dime… it is new.
It flew upon my sandal thong, and there it stood.
I was worried, yes, that I may upon the tiny creature trod.
For, it knew not how to survive, and I realized neither do I.

The two brats fight over the world.
The one epicene and the other a chauvinist. 
Like two gods, the two children fight
Over their worldtoy... kings and generals
Fight to give it to them, for they both want it.
Both have their seas of followers
Who will squash freedom of speech.
Either have purity scorned
Or such purity there is no more joy.
Every laughter is turned to sorrow
As the two children fight hard
Biting, and scratching, and kicking and screaming.
The parents of the two children bicker
As well, over whose the toy should belong to.
The grandparents, say, "My... this was not our intent."