by Marocharim

the statues come crashing down to the floor
where they all used to worship your name
the pages get torn and burned from the books
where they all once read everything you said;
when you take that long, shameful walk to the door
set apart from all your gold, glory, and fame
your worshippers and followers all give you evil looks
and wish that you were tortured, maimed, dead.

where once you saw yourself as the godhead
a king surrounded by pawns, knights and rooks
victim to an awakening; an inextinguishable flame
that reveals you not to be a savior but a whore.
when you’re left with ruins, without brick or thread
and your broken body hanging on gallows by hooks
desecrated, blasphemed, your living remains maimed
you were once admired; now you’re abhorred.