Call of the Prophet


He led an accidental life, paramour from first
To fortune’s fortressed crown. He dwelt
Within an indefinite age, its poetry penned not
In battlewon ink but long-rested silence. Nature too
Stood serene, famin’d word forgotten
With the passion of indifference. Thus fled madness,
Soul-shaken—what pauper throne remained
In world so luck-loved? Its faces, in four,
It cast through corners, uncertain curves
Bent straight for the blind.
His shadow stumbled upon one on the day of his death.


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