As a boy it might be
the stance of a holy knight,
a Jesus of power, heralding
Arcadia.
Then years point
to the scale of corruption,
to his little patch, quite small
on the ship of fools,
as he sighs to the mirage
whirling above vows, nuptial,
eddies in the black pools
of his shrinking skull,
the lantern casts
its negative light
on the slit of eyes, the horizon,
nostalgia.
Back from height
to the curvature of earth,
the place he called home,
almost mortal.
What was he then?
Half idea, half beast,
half a scientist, artist,
charlatan.
Like the rest of us,
each in our own bed
with a demon of jealousy,
finally antisocial.
jam11
