Now here I sit among kings and fools,
While no man knows which crown he brings;
Sees neither his actions nor his tools
As less than high and mighty things.
So blind, each man to his faults;
Indeed, and his great gifts as well;
Denying all that we’d exalt,
Each bathes in self-created hell.
The stench we smell of rotting souls,
So rarely do we find the source,
As each man’s action takes its toll
Upon the whole of humanity’s course.
And though this world may be a stage
That we, but players in our scenes;
Still, truth is lifted from each page,
Played out regardless in the mean.
The stuff of life – between the lines –
This is where real humanity lies;
Not in outlandish brilliant signs,
But in the windows of our eyes.
What goes unsaid, yet still is felt,
The good deeds done without ‘compense,
The selfless acts together melt,
To steel our souls in our defense.
To stay these battle lines from hell,
Our only hope, salvation’s win;
To finally break from evil’s spell,
Absolve each man of his own sin.
But in the end it matters not
If King or fool a man should be,
For both their bodies lay and rot
From death until eternity.
As for their souls, they will live on
And all their actions taken count,
Then each to hell, they will be gone
Or sent up high to heaven’s mount.