A short free-flow poem I wrote a long, long time ago:
Words beg their commission from a hidden king, whose graces they resent. Emissaries, soldiers, courtiers, troubadours, and priests, they are sent forth from his castle to bid the world take heed of him. For without their tireless march, the master would suffer alone in his windowless tower, dark, brooding, and voiceless. But without his strength, those flickering lights of mirrored meaning would themselves go dark.