In the small room he vests for worship Remembering imagined glories rooted in Childhood delusions and dreams gone by. Glory, respect and high office In the manner befitting his ego. The pomp always the important thing. But the times, they have a-change-ed And his environment starkly strange Absent the accolades, glory, laud, and honor Wondering where it all went awry, This dream from another time and place Vanished as smoke from the censor in the eaves. Was it the reality or the dream That called him from so long ago? The virgin white vestments Stained with the blood of psychic wounds His own and those of others mixed In which he wades knee-deep, day by day In anger he spins, teeth clenched, and Spits venom at the body hanging and Covered in blood, "How can this be?" And a still, small voice from within, Barely audible for being ignored so long, Lovingly sets the record straight. "You wanted to be first, and so you are last. You wanted success, and so you have failed. You wanted esteem, and so you now grovel. You wanted to rule and be served, And so find yourself alone and desolate, Crucified on the cross of your arrogance."