September 11th Epic Poem Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN (The Natural Limitations of Science)  
I’ve heard it said the human head
            Is far more dense than gold,             
And twice as slow as lava flow
            When magma’s turning cold.                      
We’re quick to see stupidity
            That other folks endorse,
But on our own we’re often prone
            To do it ten times worse.
We love to mock the load of crock
            The ancient priests employed,
To help maintain the steady gain
            Their cunning ilk enjoyed.
But as we sneer at faults made clear
            Through centuries of doubt,
We make the same through what we claim
            Our brains have figured out.
We’ve learned with tact to find out fact
            By starting out from scratch,
By throwing out the things in doubt
            Until our theories match.
But where we err is when we dare
            To stupidly insist,
That things our nerves cannot observe
            Do therefore not exist.
As knowledge grows our science shows
            That truth can now by found.
But only when it’s used by men
            Who stay within its bounds.
We must not let ourselves forget
            The limits at its core,
Or ever cook a science book
            To give us something more.              
For some will boast, who’ve learned the most,
            In what they’ve seen or touched.
But nonetheless they must confess,
            They do not know that much.
The things they’ve learned were slowly earned            
            Through methods well-controlled,   
Yet still right now they don’t know how
            To cure the common cold.
So how can they explain the way
            The universe was made?
Who need to see a recipe
            To mix their lemonade?
They must forget they owe a debt
            To thinkers gone before,
Without whose brains they’d still be trained
            To say their prayers to Thor.
They claim to gauge the very age
            Of ev’ry single star,
By placing hopes in telescopes
            That only see so far.
To see these views they have to use
            A single line of sight;
Which won’t enhance the tiny chance
            Their theories could be right[9].                            
And yet they think we’re on the brink
            Of solving all that’s true,
And if we’re tough and work enough,
            There’s nothing we can’t do.
This buoyant claim is quite insane
            In light of all we know,
 Since nature draws restrictive laws
            That say how far we’ll go.
That’s not to say there is no ray
            Of truth that science brings.
To some degree it’s helped to free
            Our minds from harmful things.
And with that said I’ll go ahead
            And give it ample praise:
An honest search is always worth
            The dividends it pays.
But candid quests through man-made tests
            Will fail to attain,   
The sum of all we like to call  
            The physical domain.
And more than that we wonder at
            A world beyond our reach,
With so much more we must explore
            That math can never teach.
Our minds possess a hungriness                   
            For something more complete,
Than bread and milk and beds of silk
            And leather for our feet. 
We need to try before we die
            To get our hopes resolved;
But truth is masked by questions asked
            That science cannot solve.
We need to know before we go
            What happens in the end:
If all, or none, or certain ones
            Will someday live again.
Should nature’s laws become the cause       
            Of all the things we do?
Or will the Lord, himself, reward
            The friend who’s kind and true?
For centuries we’ve tried to tease
            The answer out in parts,
Convinced some day we’d find a way         
            By virtue of our smarts.                    
But when in time we could not find
            The answer with our head;
We sulked and hedged, and then alleged,
            That God was clearly dead.
If God exists he might persist                                 
            In telling us himself.
But on our own it can’t be known,                                           
            Despite how hard we delve.
If there’s a chance our Maker grants
            A path to truth and grace,
We owe our sons and everyone’s
            To see if that’s the case.
But finding balms to cure our qualms
            Is hard for modern eyes.
The sacred texts of all the sects
            Are seen as earnest lies.
We cope with grief and disbelief
            While hurtling towards death.
One hundred years[10] of growing fears
            Have left us out of breath.

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