Pseudo Intellectual

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.