They cannot contemplate that he is a liar because to do so would cast the mirror upon themselves. He represented the world as perceived – a world defined by the doctrine of survival of the fittest at whatever cost and the belief in their superior selves.
They told me that this would be the third world war, ‘She’, they compared to Hitler. They, who have decimated our industries: the revisionist history. Those that will not accept that they own kind or themselves can inflict harm on themselves. And, so they swallowed the lies to protect their self-esteem. Social deprivation trauma, and so they lie: dreaming of Utopia.! History: this story has told them that they are the golden ones, incapable of not shedding light. So, every year they sing this song of hope and glory, grandeur achieved at no cost to others, for they bought forth civilisation to the world. In a world where gentlemen fought great battles, wars gave rise to heroes and heroic proses. They take pride in their righteous selves.
the white bull rises and obliterates all.
A figure — gleaming in the flashlights.
Hail, the applause reverberates, compresses the air and leaves them breathless. The oxygen sucked out of the atmosphere. Alas, the sky is still coloured blue.
They clap — the image reflected in the eyes of the cyclops, a disfigured figure painted by Francis Bacon reflected in the mirror. He of translucent skin.
A melange of glass figurines,
they broke so easily, shattered into the fragments of yesterday’s dreams.
Like grains of sand, they sipped through his hands.
Bare feet, he walks over the broken glass shards, they believed,
they perceive invincibility.
In this sacrifice, there will be no pain.
To construct this new citadel from his charred words.
A new quiet tempest beckons,
one that will transform all.
With his aura, he will crush those that stand in the way of his divine right. For, like him, they are born to grasp control of the tides of the ocean.
The destitute shall praise him though he cuts off their hands.
They bleed but see it as a just sacrifice; this night, he will lead them to the dreams of the past recalled, ’tis not fiction’.
A new Jerusalem to construct.
Brick upon brick, none shall taste the salt from their brow,
the bell’s chimes they can hear throughout the land: the proclamations written on the broadsheets.
There is no noise reflected off these precious pearls.
They will light the bonfires once again.
The words and voices of the heretics will be blanched.
They will defile their Gods.
For, there is only one.
The white cumulus clouds, hanging over the fields of magnolia, this most native of plants, will rise to the heavens, beautiful they shine,
piercing the blue sky.
The phantoms of the past shall once again reign over this land. Alas, this time with angels wings. They desire the good: the fiction, akin to a religion. The legions are marching. They defeated him only to resurrect him in their image.