Megalomaniac

Am I not flesh? Am I not blood?
My words are ash, my name is mud.
Yet I am crowned a saviour.

Four souls, forty, four hundred, four thousand.
Four spawn forth four more, and they fall
to their knees before me, their bodies piling up
in an impossible, towering pyramid with palms outstretched
for me to begin my stately ascension to the pinnacle
on the broken backs and bodies of those
who prostrate themselves.

Upon my brow a shining star.
Upon my hand an iron gauntlet.
Upon my feet are heavy boots.

I am not a god; but I am something
more, that defies the mortal confines around
the shell of something divine. I do not see it myself
of course, quite the opposite. There's nothing within
here to love, (in this sense)
and yet love they do, that vast multitude.
They love with a strength and fervor that is reserved
for gods made flesh, who died and were born again
in that orgiastic ecstasy of love and redemption
and pure animistic need.

I will not deny them; I must be He.
I will not forsake them; we must be free.
I will not eschew them; they serve Me.

Cast off sentiment, they whisper,
in the gloom of twilight when all things hold weight,
take up that sceptre and have the courage to wield it
splintering ties, honour, obligation.
Give your lives, they cry to each other
a tide of blood running red-raw at my feet,
give your lives for his hunger
and He will lead you.
Give up your lives.
Give up your lives.
He must not be hindered on his ascension
because if He cannot rise, what hope is there for us?

I am not flesh, I am not blood.
My foes are ash, my friends a flood.
And I am crowned a saviour.