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Head held high
This self appointed God
Walks on his feet of clay
Followed by an entourage
Of blinded fools
Egging him on
Reveling in his bloated contempt
As he walks on unmindful
Of the voice from within
Spouting words of wisdom
As he treads unfeelingly
Over corpses yet undead
Every word measured to hurt
Posing on a pedestal
Cracked at the base
Shallow, hollow
Like the words he speaks
It will rain one day…it will
He’ll be walking alone
When those fools run for cover
His feet…his feet
They will have left him too
What then, my God, what then?
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