by Nick Gisburne
A flock of fresh disciples kneels to pray
To share the psalms of long-forgotten lands
Their dreams are blooms, a numberless array
Carnations, gathered safely in the hands
The preacher has no timeless truth to share
His teachings are an instrument of lust
A whisper, wicked, answers every prayer
They bend towards his light, because they must
Believers, blameless, fearful of their fate
But captured by the cunning of his heart
Discover the deception, all too late
Their dreams, their flowers, plucked and pulled apart
Carnations, tainted, trampled by the lies
Discarded as the faith, the fiction, dies
