by Nick Gisburne
“I want you to believe,” the prophet said.
“I want to change the way you see the gods.
They speak to me, in secret, in my head,
A certainty defying all the odds.
They whisper of our downfall, of our doom,
That all our dreams and wishes are for naught,
Yet we who seek the light, and shun the gloom,
Upon the wings of angels will be caught.
Prepare to meet the gods, the great, the good,
For we shall sit among them as they dine.”
The seven people with him in the wood,
All naked, watch the skies to see a sign.
A single hand is lifted. “You, sir. What?”
“I thought this was the chess club. Is it not?”
