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."