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 man
slaves and machines.

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

Cycles like orbits
stages, one writer
freedom for the lucid
choose Lady or Tiger.

Time like skies bend
end, each gilded age
fearful mobs send
for ashes of page.

Living word, then spoken
heretic adaptations
time-traveler’s token
guiding permutation.

The sheep shall awaken
in haunted woods
surrounded, taken
by their holy wolves.

For governors and priests
charlatan kings
on their own poison feast
drink platinum rings.

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

The dance of the nymphs
all Titans return
to harmonize hymns
while old crosses burn.

To speak with mind
listen with eyes
play between lines
as one, realize.

You see, young pupil
if democracy dies
it cannot be noble
this Noble Lie.