The Prophet, a poem

Stomping, shouting prophecies
Lectures in the lashing rain
Dripping, draped in Visqueen
Like old furniture, discarded
Left out to rot, no longer sane

Twin angry embers stabbing
Looks dirty as the ruddy face
Wild beard flecked with froth
Snarling lips and broken teeth
Fulminating tirades on Faith

Moving stick-figure scarecrow
No sign nor book, purely invective
Shaking, oddly impressive
Lord and Master of the corner
All that raging passion infective

A true saint of the sidewalk
An instrument of judgment
Lost cause with a true cause
Midday downtown preacher
Arms thrown high, triumphant

Poetry by Harakhte/Pic by unknown