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.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: March 23rd, 2025 11:17
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 37
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments2
Brilliant! Wonderful images and metaphors so appropriate to the title. Loved this one a definite fave
Thanks Soren I appreciate your feedback and support. I have a friend who is an authority on every topic, thus this poem was born
Known many been accused of being that way by my kids even asked for sources of the information. Try not to say much anymore. Loved this poem so well done.
i know what you mean...... yet I'm guilty of this at times..... i center my life around knowledge and being right more than i center myself around community and relationships.
Wow thanks for sharing your honest feedback I appreciate it. I think probably balance is the key where we are knowledgeable but also always look to help others
i agree
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