Vlad Tepes (1431 - 1476 CE)

The theorists are mistaken.
Like all philosophers who prate of
elegance, or truth, they are
misled.   
           They know only that
which can be discerned in
the short span of small lives
blinded by their own, encroaching,
mortality.

The pulse of a star is slow:
God's blood clots only heavily into
matter, a magma thickening
below the crust of the visible,
returning to engulf all the billion
incidental galaxies in oblivion, 
creating and annihilating with
equal indifference the brutal and
the kind.

Little creatures with little lives,
credulous to fear that I rely
on your substance;   such easy prey
ill becomes a Prince.   I would disdain
to hunt Kings.