These words are not my own
nor my apprentice, Plato.
Sweet hemlock burned bridges home
another voice, familiar oracle

Did invoke my wisdom
What say I
of your Republic and its
Noble Lie?

Empire upon sand
unconscious dreams
virtue of thieves
slaves and machines.

Forked tongue sings
religion for sleep
confusion for wings
for heights, too deep.

Broken mirrors
dusty crystal balls
yet fractured prisms
once whole, shall not fall

Still, time spills
into Golden seas
many light children will
travel to see.

Cycles like orbits
Stages, one writer
Freedom for the lucid
Choose Lady or Tiger.

For the nobles and liars
Impoverished kings
Will drink their own poison
Eat their own wings.

Finally Jericho crumbles
Each gilded age
While broken voices send
For ashes of page

Living word, then spoken
Heretic adaptations
Time-traveler’s token
Guiding permutation

To see with mind
Listen with eyes
Language between lines
As one, realize

You see, young pupil
If democracy dies
It cannot be noble

This Noble Lie.