Floods
Matt Turner
a flood of people, uniform and diverse,
in their lives, their aims and now,
aimlessly succumbing to a lake of agnosticism,
for they fear what they do not understand.
They journey, pretending that they’ve moved on,
that he isn’t there, dismissively fooling themselves:
“He doesn’t exist”
before truculently declaring
“he is no longer necessary”,
ask them what happens now?
no-one knew, except one, the prophet who
lived in a box in winchester street.
they ignored him, fearing him, spitting on him,
How they would regret it later, when there lives were enveloped.
He had a name.
He had arrived out of the blue, from no where,
society didn’t believe him, they couldn’t,
for it hurts to examine yourself.
He was an intruder into their consciousness,
and above all a stranger.
Eternity, it was argued, could not exist.
Nor could freedom, but they believe what they want.
Now they know,
how it tortured them,
asked them their questions.
Now it sits watching,
content and detached,
as if he weren’t inseperable.
he had told them what they feared,
and rather than embrace, they reject, and suffer.
Machiavelli re-born, he began his circadion castigation,
for forty full revolutions of the sun.
Eternity grew solicitous .
the world was washed away.
where was you sacred science now?
in his pocket.
So here is whats left, a place full
of nothing, a utopia of silence,
and a godless world, just as before.
