The Philosopher waxed his way.
A howling lamentation, day-to-day.
Musty vellum and rolled parchment,
Built a fortress around a life misspent.
But what could Philosopher do?
Sages, mystics, and thinkers, far removed,
Must guide Him through Life and through Truth.
With Wisdom they speak; they speak to say sooth.
Philosopher opened his mail,
Invited, he was, to billow his sails,
A dance with his lady, not two days yet,
“Dear, I’ve lunch with Plato, to my regret.”
© CGT, 2017.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.