The Savior

I am the shadows that only the blind can see,
The whisper of promise that only the deaf can hear.
I am the festering hurt that only the apathetic can feel,
With the fruit of labor so bitter, such a sour last meal.

The ashes rain down and cover your faces,
Your eyes are burning with fire and hate.
Rage and despair are rampant in the streets,
Their desperate pleas for God's good graces.

The renowned Savior is a false prophet,
But still they beg and plead for his love.
While baubles dangle in front of their blank faces,
He counts his profits from above.