The Prophet

Every day he rode the stallion of fate
With a cavalier disregard for his own destiny.
Fanciful wisdom came from his head like a torrent of idyllic gemstones.
None so brave as he,
None so wise,
Yet never sure that his prophetic missal would breach the minds of apathy.
Hell-fire red, his eyes bore the weight of sorrow.
He suffered gladly,
Though in shimmering satin gowns his portrait laughed.
His body taut with pain,
His flesh burning slowly until the embers floated upon the breeze,
He should have screamed aloud,
But the heartache of unhearing ears, unfeeling hearts,
Troubled him more than a thousand sacrificial knives.
The solitude of his ambition afflicted him as a leprous curse.
Never to wane,
Always with one ultimate triumph.
A martyr he must be.
To wait for death whilst spewing forth a paradoxical reason to live.
As sure as time he can never escape the age-old sermons of his ilk;
Better to die than never to live,
Better to see the folly of life before it is too late,
Better to merely exist than to suffer the prophet's fate.