He is her opposite,
They are familiar, though they never met.
Intrinsically tied to the plainer fields of existence.
He like her, does not acknowledge, that beyond the empirical.
The Emperor, the fourth kind.
He like her, is innocent.
It is not his corruption, which counterbalances
Her purity, it is where he channels his purity.
He does not seek to hurt,
But he asserts himself constantly.
Where she is the medic, he is the warrior.
He hunts, and plays army games with his cousins.
He would never hurt a living soul.
But he has always appeared, as the wizard to me.
Fireballs, seem to be at his will at all times
And though they only appear as ghosts,...
These phantasms, in another life, seem realistic.
He craves women, and uses art to get them.
Anouther similarity he has with her;
But while her canvas and inspiration is outside...
His canvas is his body, and he is an ever-working sculptor.
He plays video games, to win.
He has no qualms about wasting his life in front of
A computer monitor, or playing paintball.
He is Qualm-less, no conflict touches him.
And while he is not the apex predator,
He is most certainly the Emperor.
The masculine, only giving,
He has no concerns, for the outside world
Or what he should receive from it.
Thus he becomes the manifestation of all that is man.
For a man is that, who is not trifled by trifles.
As for the fifth, it is attributed to three.
The Hierophant, representing red
Fitting, since two of the three are Communists.
The three, were once involved in a lovers triangle.
There names all begin with the 13th letter.
They all teach on the 13th floor, of a twelve story building.
Three academics, knowledge without a missive
Into which to apply it.
The one is a funny little pollack
Who always preachs communism,
Less for reason of virtue,
And more for pent up envy for the rich.
A professor earning less, then a garbage man
He is always bitter, making weird faces,
And odd gestures with his hands
Squinting, while he compliments you.
He laughs manically, cackling.
Saying, even though he finds your ideas foolish,
"This man has things to say"
He dates an underclassman
He acts uncouth, gets drunk
Plays fantasy football against his family
He buys overpriced pork fat.
His date often appears bored, slowly realizing it just a title.
He is a good man though, and he appreciates
Humor in the way that it is given
He stands before his suudents like a madman.
A rabbi, he manically bobs while teaching,
Hoping it will reach one of his students
But they do not understand his obsession with history.
This leaves him deserted, and thus chronicles
His life as an empty comrade, the Academic martyr.
The second of the three, is older.
She veins from emotions, because they scare her
She is an immigrant in many regards,
She lived the life he wishes he had.
A converter from a Sputnik, to an Apollo
She worshiped Moses,
And now she seeks to uncover Jesus
And so her academic pursuits, are self motivated.
She is a Bodhisattva, hoping to attain
Enlightenment, in the enlightenment of others.
She speaks more truthfully, and thinks deeper
But like her comrade, she is tied up.
She makes a mean cup of tea.
And lives truthfully, her words are always kind.
She lives a few floors above him and teaches
A few floors below.
The third, worships Anubis and works at Path-mark
He has totally given up on the innerworkings of acadamia,
But he has put in too much time, and is otherwise now useless.
He is always brushing up on his Latin.
Like the others in many ways,
His failed connection is that he never tried.
He has become nihilistic and skeptical
A weary warrior, who preaches magic,
He has no wonder left for it.
He seems to derive little pleasure.
Time is the worse of all the thieves.
A fallen tree, without the leaves.
They are three aspects of a life
I left behind in college.
And like the 13th letter
They seem intrinsically unlucky
Teachers, they mirror
The corruption of the world
And like a gun with a cap on it.
They blow their potential inward.
Sarcastically the sixth, sits siliently.
The Lovers, and oh how many he has had.
He is most normal of my friends.
His power lies is his ability to fuse.
He seems bitter, for all the connections
He has made, has given him plenty to loose.
He is skeptical, and while he tries
For a vicarious empathy, he grows shallow.
He plays guitar, and rolls his eyes.
Forever in contact with the things
Which he, like love, has united to himself;
He has little but disdain for them.
He sees the good and bad in everything;
But grudgingly usually only expresses pessimism.
He is smart enough to be a man of faith
But his faith has failed him before, so he worships science.
Dark and light unite within him.
His compliments are backhanded
They burn with corrosion. He is charmingly funny
In this regard, a passive aggressive incarnate.
He mirrors his surroundings,
And partakes in all the human rituals
Of a world, whose culture he pities.
He is worried about the enviroment.
He believes in little steps, but fails
To see the forest from the trees sometimes.
He is the Lovers, in love with a dismissivness
That only he posses. He is the white and black.
But in the end, it men like him
That hopelessly unite
The Dawn and Twilight
The Day and Night.