The Prophet

How the mighty fall

He stood before those gathered
The man that they would call a Prophet
Who might have bled for them, given them songs to sing
'Bring to me you sick, poor, and wounded'
Said he
'Those upon whose backs the success of the sinister has been built'

A note upon the man who faced the people
He was all one could wish for in a hero
A quick witted man of great stature, and strong resolve
One who might have done great harm if he'd chosen to
But walked the earth with piety
A virtuous giant among the population
Who inspired even the weakest to their great feats
Upon his broad shoulders they brought the title of Savior
They came round him in droves,
Followed his foot prints on earth and could quote his words
They adored him, and all that they were certain he would do for them

'Bring to me those that receive your secret loathing'
He stood before the harbor calling out his orders with arms wide open
'Bring to me the thieves who feed their families, the w****s that feed their loneliness,
And the b*****d that treats his wounds with inebriation
Not because they are the root of your problem, no
For they are the bloom of your ignorance.

Bring them to me

That every man might find his fault’

 

The people were moved to silence

Scattered at his feet were the faces of confusion

They had come, each of them, with a willingness

To offer up their weak for pity,

Their sick for healing

And their poor to the hands of charity

Within their hearts they prepared

Taste the waters of righteousness

And vanquish the bringers of wretchedness

 

This hero, their hero

Spoke instead of introspection, of a shared flaw among men

 

None on this day would sing

There would come no great feat of salvation

 

With hands stained in their frustration

The people tore at the pulpit and

Brick by Brick

Together they drew him from his summit

 

 

Years would come to pass;

The sea seeming to never change

The people sang

Of the colossal mad man

Once torn from his place of power

By the righteous