The Voice

Words, he said.
They should have power in meaning.

You just take words that sound nice,
and string them together.

Your voice,
it gets lost in the shuffle:

The shuffle you make,
with polysyllabic nonsense.

He said it with rising contempt,
and punctuated it with surfacing fear.

Your words are just that,
words.

Not thought thoughts,
not hopes, or dreams.

And as tears filled my eyes,
and reflections changed;

I saw what he really was,
and suddenly I understood.

He was a voice,
all but disembodied;

But for how tiny,
and frail he was.

It was like that body,
wasn't even there.

His voice was loud,
and commanding.

The skies trembled,
the earth shook at its sound.

The seas parted,
and retreated as a vanguard of the din.

Kings crowned,
and emperors turned to paupers in it's wake.

And all the world turned,
by such a mighty sound.

But now I could see,
from whence it came.

A miserable,
tiny;

forlorn,
beaten;

wretched,
barely human man.

And I turned to him,
"No they are, just not yours."

"Yours have already died",
and then finally so did he.

And then, my softer voice issued forth,
and false kings were torn down.

Wise Emperors rose,
from piles of filthy rags;

And resumed a silent watch,
responding to their peoples call.

And the seas rushed,
to fill long parched voids.

The earth quieted,
the skies relaxed.

And yet still the world turned,
even though he had passed.

And so a new age dawned,