by Nick Gisburne
The prophet is evasive when addressed
He skirts around the stories of his past
His misdirection leaves me unimpressed
Deflecting every question, to the last
His time is given freely, class by class
But always that compulsion to conceal
Illusions in a crooked looking glass
Reflecting only half of what is real
If I expose a charlatan today
What then for those who follow him in faith?
Is he the living god to which we pray
Or something no more righteous than a wraith?
I strive to seek the truth, or find the fraud
But everything I ask him is ignored
