great-thrones

I met the devil at a coffee shop reading poetry about knights and chivalry and how we do with what we have all we can. Even if the princess never loves us back. He spoke to me afterward at length over hot yellow apple cider about the accident of birth we call fate; how it isn't your fault she was already married, or far above your class. How you can't help your purpose, or form. He spoke passionately, his eyes like pale stars so mourning his own circumstance; and I believe he did not realize he wasn't talking to me.

Socrates cuts the jury apart with his plain truths, and unadorned, though he succeeds only in angering them. Ashamed, and bitter at his corrective nature they answer his crystalline logic with death. The Oracle hedges his bets with loose language, even as Socrates strove to prove him wrong: with the wise men, that crossed meanings; with the poets, that loved only pretty and empty words; with the artists, that nurtured images far too vibrant to leave room for petty philosophy. He spades his own grave even as he unravels the lies constructing his sentence. That ignorant lawyer Meletus falls into each trap, his contradictory arg