The street light blinds as the man steps out from shadow. A whispered word of warning the man speaks, his voice falls short of an audience. Still speaking wanting the silence only he can bring. Sadly he listens to what so many chant and jabber as they pass his soapbox, a podium of the poor. The pedestal he use to raise above above all others thought a shovel and sad hole could have done him a better turn. If voice where to leave could he return to the dark world he come from, the world where he was free of sin and let to be what he was before his mouth was ever opened. The man stands quiet in his thoughts, he stands pennant, silent and regretful of the voice the lead him astray. Only a plea permeates him lips. One of forgiveness, that someday his words could be forgotten.
As always I am,
The Destroyer of Worlds
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