The Pied Piper of Lost Souls

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You are not a god. You’re a shark in the Sahara.

This is the embarrassing truth. The unfortunate end to the Emmy worthy performance  for all of your loyal fans. Because you are an actor. A poet with hollow words and shallow glances that are impossible to see through. You’re the piper and we are your mice. Your song is lovely. The tune, enchanting; spellbinding. But, your flute is small and your melody grows curious to seasoned ears. These crowds of scurrying feet soon realize that you have no idea where you are going. You wonder loosely and without purpose, aside from your resentment for the purpose of others. But still they follow. They’ve heard a lovely song before and they wait because they naively believe that is the song you want to play.

You play and you dance until you grow bored. Then, Oh Judas! Your tune turns bitter, cold, harsh. Then you stop. Leaving poor souls far from places they know and without the means to ever go back. Then it’s a new song. New followers. Same old lackluster performance. The lights are bright and blinding, but the show without a script, void of substance. And you do it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Each time, convincing these little mice they are different. Old lies lay softly on unweathered hearts, you see.  And again. And again. And again. And again. You’re unimpressive, yet your feigned vulnerability lures these timid mice, these rats, these dogs.

No, you are not a god. You’re an exterminator with a tiny flute, doomed to play the only song you know. The only song you’ll ever know.

I’ll hear that song in Hell.

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