Prophet

I

You called me prophet once, sat at my knees
while my fingers played through your hair,
healing: a Renaissance frieze.
At the time, the image seemed fair.

Now, a year since, its memory mocks,
a remembered dream vainly nursed.
Disgraced, the prophet’s back among the rocks,
locusts, wilderness, and thirst.

II

But in my wilderness I saw your own,
as hubris rode you like a demon:
when your wiles enslaved a freeman
to the bondage of your throne.

And on his tawdry court you shed,
as though to do Salome proud,
your seven-veiled shame to shock the crowd:
and, with razored spite, severed my head.
***