NaPo XXVII. Philosophe

The love of wisdom is no love per se.
It acts like dusty, passionless old tomes
And gives no warmth of moonlit nights to they
Who bade fair wisdom call their hearts her home.
For rather, philosophe, you dwell on ink
And put to death vitality and comb
The nits of truth from scalps of those who think.
Cry havoc, thou pursuers of the taint
Which mars the minds of those who boldly drink
Of correspondent truth, proceed to paint
The world in terms of logic paired with faith.
Go label such impassioned fools as saints
And take up ways of life which glow on paper
Ye named as wisdom's lovers while ye hate her.