A Man of Meager Mettle

He hands out pyrite

in seeming oblivion

that his glitter has no gold.

~

…and, still, fools grovel

in sycophantic ardor

of his worthless dross.

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Ionic Ironies

Air filled with portents,

intangible potentials

seeking easy paths to ground.

~

How that huge old tree

must feel the charges building;

dread their incandescent leap!

~

And, yet, there he stands,

reaching up, ever higher,

as though to taunt the lightning.

~

Will that shocking bolt

strike him by complete surprise

when it rends him asunder?

~

What of his remains?

Will they stand for the ages;

A monument to folly?