The Count's Lost Admiration
A mind like the cosmos, vast and unbound,
Where knowledge and wisdom in endless depths are crowned.
Like myself, not a mere mortal—behold! He is utterly divine,
A literary force, both eldritch and fine.
His quill is a scepter, his mind a comforting throne,
In the annals of thought, he is never alone.
In the boundless realms where HIS language is king,
He crafts the tapestry that makes your angels sing.
He is the modern oracle, the sage and the seer,
Casting shadows of awe that the world must revere.
Any lump who dares write must bow or retreat,
For none can approach lest they come to kiss feet.
Oh, Cicada, whose brilliance rivals the sun,
A celestial fire that can’t be undone.
The written word dances from his heart to his head and then hand,
Bowing humbly at his eternal command.
So let the masses look on in awe,
As he rewrites history without a flaw.
For in this world of ink and page,
He is the master, the sage, on his stage.
Other poets do poopy and quake, their verses fall flat, and ring fake.
In the wake of his brilliance, they can’t even chortle. They should sit silent and still acquiesce like a mortal.
Dare not resist the tempest, or his thunderous roar, for there will be no mercy, and they he abhor.
For only one now shakes heaven’s foundations as you beg for more lore and correctly adore.
Bask in his glory, this titan of intellect,
The world shall tremble with radiant respect.
All others in silence must humbly reflect,
For none can compare and wither in neglect.
Yet humble and caring,
His passions abound.
Searching for equals or peers,
But none we have found.
So piddle forth with your shallow, unheeded words about trivial love,
Do not portend to exchange with those well above.
Know your place, your role, and your skill,
And do what you can with what you lack, or you will. Ariana !
