The Leader’s Lament

He stands with goodness in his heart,

With open arms, to play his part,

To lift the crowd from lowly mire,

To feed their hopes, to spark the fire.

 

But the multitudes, with wary eyes,

Pull him down from righteous skies,

"Lead us!" they cry, with tongues so sharp,

And yet they aim to wound and carp.

 

He seeks to steer them from the past,

Where wells are dry, and shadows cast,

But they demand, with heads turned low,

To draw from springs that ceased to flow.

 

"Ye hypocrites!" he longs to shout,

For all their doubt, for all their clout,

Their leaders, prophets, all cast down,

To be forgotten in the crowd’s own frown.

 

And so he wonders, in his head,

If peace, contentment, when all is said,

Is but a dream, a fleeting spark,

Lost in the chaos of the dark.

 

He leads them still, though far behind,

They chase the ghosts, no truth to find,

And in his heart, both hope and dread,

For in the end, all leaders are dead.