An ode to a common man,
whose cipher left in ancient sand,
which fade from a scholar’s mind,
for flagrant is such Cronus’ Time.
This God of Time cripples all,
while fire will so gently fall,
as it sparks the weeping dirge,
just robbing hope to sadly purge.
Throw each God and Hero ‘side,
the basic ones have never died,
so soft his hymns gently state,
no arguer for this needed fate.
To sculpt such words upon stone,
each average soul has timeless throne,
for the sins of vivid gold,
in bludgeoned coin will future hold.
With zeal of an artful talk,
yet sadly will the scholar mock,
looks down on the folly man,
whose finding love in empty sand.
State needs of a manly lore,
each teacher I have yearning for,
yet when song and scholar fight,
the poet’ one is always right.
This is a Chapter of The Shadowed Soul, by justin j. witte, and it can be purchased on Amazon at this link
