(An alternate level of hell for Dante's Inferno)

The Circle of Pi

The Poet stopped and turned to me,
"The sins of perfection lie beyond this gate,
To the circle of Pi, descend shall we.

Scientists, perfectionists, numerologists amend
Their will to disprove God and heaven above;
From numbers and patterns they must now fend."

The Sphinx was the creature that guarded this gate,
"Answer a riddle to pass by unscathed,
Or solve falsely and face an imminent fate.

A word of three letters I implore upon thee,"
Riddled the Sphinx, flexing dagger claws,
"Add two more, and fewer there will be."

A logical deduction and blatant rejoinder,
Incurred my voice the word "few,"
And the Sphinx raised her paw so as we may enter.

Around the circumference of this level of Pi,
Mathematicians crawl atop broken glass,
To measure the infinite 3.14159…

Calculating irrationals in fiery clay,
Ratios dissolve their cursed minds,
Damned to think till Judgment Day.

Then voice, "Their sins," my dear poet narrated,
"are their futile attempts to solve life
in numbers without God lest highly debated.

They could not enjoy the simplicity of day,
So frustrated their minds to wonders' construe.
Condemned they are now to continue their way

Driving madness without an end to patterns and lines,
Now must count to and solve eternity in the putrid
unsatisfied clay of bountiful life's wasted divine."

Weary turned and spoke to my guide, "Please let us forsake
These blighted souls to continue their math evermore.
The numbers they chant gives my head such a quake."

Turning away, "Then gather shall we to further descend."
Passing through the gates, lamentations arose astern,
The echoes of the counting that would never end.