The Philosopher's King

Dedicated to Sir Karl Raimund Popper and his Open Society

[first draft]

quietly he sits outside in the sun
the brush is flying over the easel.
white paint is covering the horrid picture
generations before him had begun.

covering their errs and sins
this one is going to be better
he’s learned from everyone’s mistakes
his one is going to be perfect

there, he has cleaned up the surface
and if the world was created in seven days
it takes just as long to start again.

he’s wise, he knows much better
so he sits, in an intelligent posture.
hand under chin, thinking ain’t a sin

zealously he takes the brush into his hands
eagerly putting into place what’s already taken shape in his head
in near perfection, not a single god could compete
every single grain of sand has its place

stroke by stroke a new world’s taking shape
where every single man has got a place
but there, the brush slips, blood spills
covered up hastily with black and grey.

he is painting, painting, the brush is rushing back and forth
but the picture is much worse than ever
all the thought and brain
it was all to no avail

what once took seven days to erase
is not a one man’s job
it takes generations
just to cover up the blood.

perfection’s nowhere near
though he has learnt from previous mistakes
there are plenty more to make.

his life, his work, his art – in shreds
so cleverly thought out
but for the paint he used
there would be rolling heads.

No more data. eol.