TASTE OF WITS I
Kings measure true greatness with the
barometer of servitude.
Is greatness grandiose poses, facial
embellishments, facade of betterments,
semblances of perfections or put-ons
eulogized on unctuous streets of the media? Well!
Is greatness digital cowries, unseen bucks,
stacked in Louis Vuitton bags, or coins
stored up in foul potbellies of avarious
gourmands? Maybe
Is it then Midas touch, or the grey monuments
of fame buried in cemeteries of ghosts who
sold their soul for a denarii during the great depression? Hmm!
It's nub can only be seen in the nucleus of servitude,
that sparkle which lightens darkened hope,
the sprite that invokes fumes of joy in languid hearts.
Lo! the scent of strength oozing from a bevy of ants
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