Slowly and serene he approached the stage,
a traditionalist, silent and austere,
where the fools and jesters also stood,
Center stage,
to steal from their patrons
the amusements accrued from their buffoonery,
setting themselves so very base and low.
Every part of themselves on display,
and sold to the highest bidder.
Under the spotlight, Michel did burn.
He burst into flames beneath the scrutiny
of the looking glass from on high,
and the sea of eyes from below.
He burst into incantation,
and robbed them of their security.
He bound them with the whirlwinds,
of his lashing tongue,
and sold not one ounce of his pride,
for the ripe gathering of their souls,
but left them savagely staring into the abyss,
Where his lyric and meter burst forth;
The imagery of such wonderous beauty
and terror,
as it lept from the safety
of a circle of power.
Bound they remained,
transfixed and agape,
as they beheld fire raining from the heavens,
and an unfaltering sea of the dead.
Spread out before all,
imagery crystal clear and begging to be deciphered,
from the auspices of astral philosophies,
and the ghosts of angels,
still lingering in the aftermath,
of nightmares that lie faint,
across the twinkling glow,
at the apex of the midnight candlelight.
