With a Godly breathe

he inhales the heavy, yet

hollow whispers of the night

siphoning the miniscule remnants of assurance

loosely woven, each with its own cynical thread

sowing seeds to monotony

He speaks

Just as we’ve all been anticipating

His chest swells with power

We brace ourselves, only to be contradicted by the tenderness of his golden instrument

He returns to us: a single story,

and it satisfies many

Yet, it is not what he says that defines the moment

But the words that are never conceived

-           And would be ill conceived if otherwise

because

he knows not who he is,

but who he is not.