Another contest-poem. This one, the theme was to take a picture of a grave and write about the dead person.

I picked Confucius. x3; Thus the title. Rawr. You thought it'd be an extended metaphor, didn't you?

The object,
lives five classics later.
Sunsets set a path; trails unnamed
to places where sons don't die,
disciples stay alive,
and heroes don't live beyond their time
when all else leaves.
The brow is wet with grief and
philosophy embedded under age lines,
strokes of wisdom,
limits of the mind
of the superior man.
When eyes burn and politics
go unheard in the swim of conversation;
when journeys set the backstory
to the unread;
when wise men wander
the only thing left
is truth.

And to conclude;
if a philosopher dies,
and no one's there to hear him
does he make a sound?
Moralistic pages in autumn blazes,
charred and blacked out prose aflame
and the ship goes down,
and they make no sound.