not set
2001-08-23 21:16:13 (UTC)

The Philosopher King

Obsidian pinholes of
Ice-water eyes scan the sanctuary
Of the philosopher king.
Twenty minds he sees,
Twenty minds to shape, to mold
To retool as he should deem.

In a voice of mellow amber,
He starts to preach,
His voice rising and falling,
Starting and stopping,
All the while planting its hooks.

A choir of the exotics stands all around him,
Should he require their aid.
Idle, they stand at the ready, chanting,
A song from the heart of darkest Africa
Always on their lips.

Weary grows the philosopher king, his lecture spent,
His strength full tapped.
His students file from his crypt-study,
Their eyes pierced by the sudden light,
Their ears assaulted by the market airs,
Their noses drenched in the freshened ether,
Now loosed from the dark, silent, musty
Abode of the philosopher king.

Tomorrow they shall again return,
To once again sit in circles within the tome-walls
And draw strength from his knowledge.
For they are addicts, his addicts.
So shall they come until the end of days,
To drink from the well
Of the philosopher king.