The Philanthropist

Sitting silently upon the stairwell;
Mr. King was gazing through the darkness
That was spilling from the window lattice.

It was something that he often practiced,
In the stillness of the tranquil midnight,
In the safe warmth of his tattered trench coat.

Such a preacher of his time would not wish
For wealth — not a mountain that is glowing
From the million golden coins which it holds.

All he teaches me are humble biddings
Of an altruistic man — a bishop —
But, with ease, I feel all his wantings.

As his eyeballs comb the peaceful blackness,
Searching for eternity, his anger —
Stands — before collapsing into despair.

All his greed dissolves like ashes sky-bound —
Eyes now vacuum; I return to my own;
Leaving all his charity in shadows.