The Wanderer's Back
They sit in cold judgement,
their modern eyes cast baleful stares,
passing their false prophet's law,
upon his ancient blood;
eyes of blackened ice reply in silent amusement.
Still they judge him according to their ways,
money, property, suited jobs and cars,
he has a future of reputation's immortality,
his art will last beside his words;
as the bones of his persecutors become dust.
He smiles in a single wave of cold indifference,
as he watches them realise their fate,
small minds shaped by small cages,
dying in their living corpses;
as the wanderer shows them his back.
©David Nickle Read 2015
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