The Prophet’s Burden
In realms where chaos weaves its snare,
A shadowed trial, a whispered prayer,
I grasp the rod of crackling might,
A Lightning Gun, the heavens’ light.
My hand, though trembling, seeks the true,
Like Moses parting seas anew,
Tracks the foe with anguished sweep,
A wrist that aches, a vow to keep.
No mortal twitch, yet dread’s cold sting,
The beam descends, a fragile wing.
Their strafe, a taunt of fleeting dust,
I mirror, as Elijah must—
When fire fell through skies of pain,
I glide, I shift, in toil’s refrain.
Or counter them, Isaiah’s scroll,
A vision dimmed by doubt’s dark toll.
The keys, my chariot, grind’s cruel steed,
Like wheels that spun through prophet’s need,
No pause, no rest, a ceaseless grind,
A storm of sweat, a burdened mind.
The beam, a flame of faltering breath,
Through chaos cuts, yet fears my death.
My mouse, a staff through nights forlorn,
As Moses struck, by dread was torn,
Its sensitivity, a fragile plea,
Too swift, too slow—unworthy me.
Their leaps, their bounds, a mocking sight,
I chase with dread through endless night.
Each hit resounds, a fleeting call,
Like Sinai’s voice, I stumble, fall,
A high percent, a fleeting crown,
Elijah’s fire through failures drown.
The beam, a pillar, frail with strain,
A flicker won through ceaseless pain.
The grind, a specter, haunts my soul,
A weight of dust, a prophet’s toll,
Each miss a wound, each hour a blight,
I wield the flame, yet feel no might.
Perpetual doubt, a shroud I wear,
Not good enough, my heart’s despair.
No earthly soul could bear this flame,
A gift from realms that whisper shame,
Each strike, a cry through shadowed haze,
Isaiah’s coal in grinding’s maze.
The Lightning Gun, my cursed plea,
A servant’s wrath, yet chains to me.
Supernal tides through toil ignite,
The hitscan hums, a prophet’s fight,
Their forms dissolve, my spirit frays,
By heaven’s will, through endless days.
A timeless force, the scriptures sigh,
I wield the bolt—through dread, I try.