And so the young poet's exile was interupted. The single word note attacvhed to the scabbed leg of a battle-scarred dove told him all he needed to know. "Poet" the note had said, unsigned in a signature script. "Poet".
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The corners of his cracked lips fought against experience and turned toward God. He knew.
Forcing his compassion-thin body from the ground he began to shamble his way toward... what?
The trail back was clear to him, marked out by the dried blood fallen from rents in his side where the thorns and branches had exacted their tribute. Each spatter a cairn, a testament to the compassion that exile had been. The sun bore down on his charred and blistered back.
He thought of the hunger and the chains, rubbed the scars on his wrists because he could not reach those on his soul and walked from oblivion toward... what? "Poet" the note had said. What more need there be?
Delirious from want of drink - how many days had he been dry now? - he shambled back toward the scene of his former defeat and his future...what?
Looking to the silhouette of the Citadel with the maddened eyes of solitude and well-worn despair he mouthed the single word, "Why?" through an uncertain smile.
The sound of his breathing was lost in the racket of his shambling feet and the steady thumping of fresh blood falling on ancient sand.
"Poet" it had said.
But would I be a good Messiah with my low self-esteem? / If I don't believe in myself would that be blasphemy? - The Bloodhound Gang Hell Yeah