Is It I

For whom do you write, vainglorious poet? Who are the disciples you seek? Shall converts worship at the altar of your prose; Devoutly reciting your works? Is there passion alight in your breast; The call of some unknown muse? Or does your pen labor of its own accord, Guided by some universal force? What is the sermon? What message do you proselytize to the masses? Shall all bow, or bend knee; Demonstrably awed by your articulate compilations? Self-fashioned prophet! Or perhaps it is godhood you seek. Author of verbal constructs. Creator. For who can judge your writing? Who can look down their nose? Furrow their brow? Scoff? For what you have crafted stands. In grandiloquence or simplicity. Perfect. Crafted just so, and gifted to the world. Can a critic better evaluate its worth; Can the detractor eclipse the creator? Perhaps then, it is he Who fancies godhood the more. A Grand inquisitor! Laying to rest the heresies of your writ. Sound the trumpets! Send forth the drums of war! Who shall emerge the crusade? Shaper of public opinion. Master. God?