Puppets Of A Pretentious Prophet

For a faceless prophet,

it’s ironic

to birth a faith

chained with rules

like shackles on a prisoner,

discipline carved into stone,

disgust disguised as devotion,

hatred packaged as holiness.

Every other god,

every other faith,

every other breath that isn’t theirs —

an abomination, with a target on their backs.

They forbid animal meat

unless served with untainted intentions —

and yet slice human throats

without blinking,

calling it devotion,

faith-fed slaughter,

human meat carved by bloodlust,

served with adulterated notions of faith.

The prophet demands sacrifice —

not from the willing,

but from the cradle:

children stripped of innocence,

foreskins uprooted,

boys bloated into bombs with promises of paradise,

trained to detonate before they can even dream.

True sacrifice isn’t bravery — it’s blood:

yours, theirs,

yours as long as theirs must bleed too.

The prophet hides his face, not out of mystery,

but because bloodstains blur better than shame.

Or perhaps, it’s the blood itself that has devoured his features —

a prophet baptized in rivers of ruined lives.