Poem: These big suits (false prophets)

Dazzling in their mystic garbs
Apostles of a late testament
They shield their faces inside a veil
And bear an emblem of a serpent, leprosy and blood -
All three signs of Moses.
These prophets carry strange fire on their heads
Noisy blinding firecrackers, unarmed,
All I make of them is a big suit full of hot air
Beclouding others with the pomp by which they discharge flatus

These big suits are hallowed, revered and exalted
And what are we than those who pay homage;
They are rich and glamorous -
Their convoys stretch like a triumphal train
And what are we than those who pay for them
And over whom they reign;
They receive revelations over daily tea with a holy spirit
And what are we than those who shun sound doctrine
To wait on their highlights
They are the anointed ones and prophets – self named
And we are the ones who must not touch them or do them harm
These big suits are full of hot air
And a generation that refuses to seek the Lord is at their mercy!

© 2010, poem by Tee Akindele