he wears his books like armor,
quoting names that never knew him.
a banquet of syllables, stale bread,
teeth gnawing what won’t nourish.
his voice, grease on a cracked wheel,
squeals loud about empty roads.
towers of titles rise in his head,
monuments to mirrors of nothing.
the wine glass prances in his hand,
a prop for pseudo rebellion’s sting.
he cuts no path, only spreads fog,
houseroom for his brittle mind.
he calls you blind, a simple beast,
but he never fought the wolves.
lonely kings like him starve quietly,
lost in their castles of brittle air.