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| False Prophet | |
| By ellipinnock | ||||||||||||||
| 28 November 2006 | ||||||||||||||
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I always wondered how it would feel to be behind disaster, to catch the train behind, the plane before the one that crashed. So close to being unmade yet somehow oblivious until it is too late; the crash is done, the destination reached and nothing can be done to make amends for being just too slow to catch catastrophe. Now black and white have turned a mottled shade of grey obscuring contrast, making a blind man out of a prophet. False prophet, seeding certainty in the hearts of your followers yet forgetting to mind your own auguries, to share your arcane knowledge with those who are condemned to struggle in your wake, overwhelmed now by tidal waves across shifting sands where once a biblical house stood strong. If you find a path back from the knife edge will you share it? Or will you doom us with silence that we may falter and fall in your footsteps?
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