The Words of Dead Prophets.

Taking is too easy.
The brutal calculus personified,
Laid bare in cutthroat banditry.
Wanton warlords.
Feral beasts.
No longer an animal,
Evolved enough to walk.
Portrayed as brute,
Simpleton,
Monster.
What else is a monster to do?
But reap,
Sow anger and discontent.
Live as a wildling,
Dictate of the populus.
Scrabble in the dirt,
Roam amongst the forests.
Supposed to die young,
You wretch.
Growth is survival,
Masks are necessary evils.
You learned to fight,
Win,
Kill.
Conqueror’s blood.
Useless in an age of law.
As useless as you.
As useless as anything else.
Death is kindness,
Sometimes.
Cruel probabilities,
Harsher endings.
Suicide becomes flirtation with death,
Attempts become release –
From a doomed existence.
Why not become the tyrant?
Abuse strength and cunning?
Become feared across the land!
Play the villain –
They always typecast you,
Regardless.
Yet,
A drive to prove them wrong.
Spite or fury?
Pride or hatred?
The creature played at monk.
Silly woodsman,
Far flung mountains of the buddhists,
Merely echo your own.
You have no religion,
Took a vow of heresy!
Painted these sins across your corpse.
Fall to madness,
Whilst seeking enlightenment.
Shatter across a thousand realities.
Bow before a hundred dead gods.
Cackle in the face of the living.
Play witness!
Glorious evolution.
Hallowed growth.
Ascendance in rites of rampancy.
Monk.
Move beyond space and time.
Existing in realms of dream –
And probability.
Infinite forking paths,
Calling to dead philosophers.
Do they know metaphor?
Can they grasp allusion?
When all the fools are dead,
And rotting…
Who will be left,
To read the words of dead prophets?