Ode To Sense

What is Heaven but a place,
Imagined by the helpless faith
Cascading through the minds
Of only those of weakest kinds?

Men of England, thou lack comprehension:
Ye believe in most undesirable intentions;
Yearning for honour in the afterlife,
Searching for an escape from desirable strife,
Discarding human instinct and desire,
Throwing man's freedom down into the mire.

Heaven is a realm for Plato’s Forms:
True visions of ships and perfect storms,
The very essence of colour and sound,
No mortal multitudes to be found.
But this men, is not reality for ye,
For truth is in the beauty of the sea,
The love of friend and abhorrence of foe,
Creativity spun from amidst your woe.

What is heaven but a word of demise,
Intended to abolish thoughts so precise
As these that state the harsh cold fact;
The Church so sly has formed a pact
With the incompetent Castlereigh;
Ye shall not return to faith this day.