They are not kings, but they should be.
Metaphorical kings, you understand, like
Socrates’ Philosophers,
craning always toward the light,
eyes piercing through the darkness
to free their shadowy counterparts of the lies within them.
They are the heroes, I tell you! Not the ridiculous body-weapons
who confuse freedom with self-glorification,
and who believe that the world would be better if only it were less
different and more easy. These unjust pseudo-heroes solve the problems
of “the world” (so they say) by leaving as many bodies as they save.
Are we not flawed, too?
“Yes!” Cries the Philosopher, thinking towards freedom.
“We are flawed, but capable of change, of light,
“of light! Do you not see it?”
And we, the masses, the world, do not;
we see only shadows and claim the Philosophers to be
mad, idealistic fools (but we do claim them “to be” something, do we not?)
But it matters little.
Meanwhile, we, “the world,” spit our flame and our condemnation;
our battle cry is “hate!” (although masked by freedom or religion, or whatever
else we think it necessary to spill blood for.)
But the Kings continue wait patiently,
writing and watching and waiting
to lead us into the sun,
and their battle cry is "Eureka!"