He sits in a corner,
Ancient quill in hand,
Thoughts fall on papyrus,
Paints an illusion so grand.

He scrawls the ramblings,
His embodied thoughts of time,
Constantly predicts war and chaos,
In the hope they read his rhyme.

He points to the words of gods,
And manipulates the pure word,
All to sate the inner thirst
To inspire fear in this world.

He stands on a corner,
Hiding in plain sight,
Shouting louder than a ship’s horn,
Shouting about our future plight.

Blaming everyone but himself,
For the fate that he has chosen,
Always playing to the fallacy,
So his life remains frozen.

He wrinkles and withers,
Struggling to move the quill,
Always hoping for that disaster,
That he saw in his inner will.

He decays into nothing,
The papyrus crumbles to dust,
His name lies forgotten by the men,
His warnings lost amidst their lust.

So judgement day falls,
The men raise their hands to the sky,
Their pleas for mercy go ignored,
And all they can ask is why.

In the paradise above,
A man sits in the corner alone,
Scrawling his ramblings on papyrus,
Warnings he heeds on his own…