The Orator

He stood tall, proud, above the masses,

Nobly bearing the duty thrust upon him

His eye searched the crowd; his hand implored silence--

And even the wind in the grass

Stilled as he spoke.

He was the bearer of the sacred word

Which sprang from his lips as the breath of life,

Instilling in the hearts of his people a secret hope--

A radical desire--

An iron resolve for change.

His were the words of God and that day,

A new religion was born

As the hearts of his disciples beat

To the tune of the words of their newfound God,

And their eyes shone with a fire

The likes of which they had never felt

Before. Their timid souls

Rose up as one as their leader carried on.

Enraptured, entranced, enchanted--

A million puppets dangling from a single hand.

But there--in the back of the cheering mass of men

A questioning voice arose and reached the ears

Of the leader. The crowd failed to notice

His face grow pale

As eh raised his hand and pointed,

Smiling, in the direction of the threat.

With a few deliberate, careful words,

His puppets descended as one

Like dogs upon the dissenter,

Devouring, consuming, destroying

The very essence of the man

Until the threat was no more,

And all returned to silence

At the bidding of the man who

In a few short moments had become God.

And so began the bloodshed.