by Nick Gisburne
The wise man’s words were nothing. He was wrong.
His wickedness beguiled us with a lie.
Our trust was true, our faith insanely strong,
But all he ever he did for us will die.
We listened, and we followed. Blind, we bled,
Renouncing what was precious in our past.
He laid his hands upon us, gave us bread,
The manna of the True, the Few, the Last.
When scattered seeds of doubt began to grow,
He coloured each uncertainty with shame,
For only he, of all of us, could know
The mysteries he never seemed to name.
Revealed, we watch him grovel in his guilt,
Bewildered we are breaking what he built.
