Calling.

And the voice grew louder-
“blessed are those who have seen the prophet”.
I blinked my eyes and there I was,
on the rut away from the daily mill.
Of stones, pricks and foreboding signs.

There, I met the spinster.
As is her wont, she smelled of cant; a deluded mind.
“Your forebears know better”, she warned.
I walked on.

Then came the old man- the simpleton fool.
Fetid with bigotry and dogma,
he regaled me the story of the scab, who lost it all.
I walked on.

At the curb was the fearsome priest.
A spear, in his hands;
impaled on it, the heads of dykes and heathens.
“Your kind!”, he sneered.
“Goodness forbids you turn the corner”, he put wise
I am struck. I look back.

The voice came back, louder-
“False dreads they! “.
I walked on; took the curve.
There he was. The Prophet. The Soul Rebel.
Waiting for the Zion train.