A question has begun to plague me: how could I be destined to write poetry when my life has been so blatantly free of events that would normally drive a person to true wisdom. Simply put, can a person achieve knowledge of difficulties without being challenged himself?
Abe Bennet lived a solitary life,
Perusing rows of dusty, gentle books
That lined the walls that bound for him his world:
A store of truth for any seeker’s quest.
Abe’s lord was Soodoe, King of Abapax,
Who ruled with mighty hand his spoiled land.
While battles raged, Abe watched them from afar,
And wrote of what he saw without his walls.
Abe’s life was charmed, protected as he was
By brutal lord and equal vicious luck
That placed him out of reach while thrusting off
To fight score’s scores of men with equal worth.
So what could Abe, who suffered no in life
Nor dabbled e’er in man’s corrupting oils
Expound in verse what might have weight to those
Who triumphed daily more than Abe had once?
But, lo, his poems, scripted cleanly through
Held gems of wisdom wrapped in gentle cloth,
For watching, reading, hearing others fail
Will teach with force but spoils not the man.
Pray, who is wiser, Soodoe King or Abe?
The master of the sword and seer of sin
Or master of the word and seer of man?
Abapax says Soodoe, but the wise would answer Abe!
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