The King of the Poetry Underground Pt. 2

his fans cry out, pleading to have their praises heard.
the prince of the poetry underground
will not hear them.

his father never wavered, never changed his way of playing the tune,
he craved the same-sung praises so.
he died with his reward, the Lord of His Dark Verses.

that is not the prince’s curse.

he ponders deeply every rhyme and style
into which he wanders,
lost in love awhile, with its bright young flame,
until he sees it flicker, sees its weakness flutter in the breeze,

and listens to the whispers of other ways taking shape.

today they praise.  tomorrow they won’t be found.
an interested one will come, and sing and play along, and add some notes.
a new wave of guests will flow to the scene, flooding the prince’s halls,
and dance to the tune of a grand new delusion.
a million variations will drown the theme, and carry it, gleaming,
up the steps of the basement,
and slipping through the crack in the door, deposit it, gasping,
on the shore of the main stream.