Fyodr Dostoevsky, I acknowledge your beauty; do you see mine; and that of my armies?: A poem 

You saw suffering and pain, and called it inevitable 

I know the intelligence of truth has always suffered 

just like you did and felt your strength; and I did 

in the throes of eternal treachery. The depth of your  

soul, I acknowledge. But I look wandering aimfully, 

sometimes, if I can get any too. I am also wondering  

amazedly in the strength of my soul to continue 

without any tangible encouragement! I think it 

can be easier to cry, to rue, to seek sympathy. But 

I want to be exemplary to my Kings and Queens 

who I chose to follow the path of being hated and despised, 

but yet stand for the truth. We did not live to subsist in living, 

but live bravely and unabashedly for the mystery and enigma of the truth, 

which has not yet been fully unsheathed, but that is already  

vehemently loathed by those who fed on the fruit of evil.  

How convenient it is for them to prefer their convenience  

and hate our profundity with an incendiary animosity. We are not  

brittled by such hatred! My Kings and me have the power to be sublime 

and humble in copping that hate, ludicrous as it may seem 

to the honest voices of eternity. We are clothed in courage, and they in 

deceit. We have Donned this courage to live for Supreme Justice, 

in a death and reliving; without shouting our Righteousness from rooftops! 

Their alleged goodness is a wooden spoon; ours is unmanifested gold 

trophies. And I see even the Trump of my true love, that I risk 

because she is not free of hijacking treachery, with that tragic simplicity!  

Because I am constantly disavowing my love as much as I avow it! We are (me and my armies) what we are! 

Like coils of springs that jump out of their latency, every time the need arises. 

I am not troubled by their (the hypocrites’) febrile dysentery being called decent. But I should add 

they have never acknowledged the falsehood of their misdeemed definitions of moral, amoral  

and immoral, in their light-veined gusto to claim the monikers of goodness. 

Fyodr Dostoevsky, do you see my armies? Do you feel the sorrow of how they 

are lost in a battle where evil consumes them every time I love them, or they are even remotely victorious? 

 And like you stated that the essence of life is to dare: We dare; my armies dare, my Kings dare, my true love  

dares, all my loves dare – even in the treachery that they are compelled to commit against me by the handiworks of a domineering tyrannical evil!