In our early years before illumination you were the self-appointed minister of day to day essence. A station you savored and I gladly consented. In my eyes your word was truth, stirring poetry in all you touched. Time, a prowling harbinger of wisdom, crept into your domain, infecting your grandeur, breeding questions and doubt. Your ardent defense was in the end flawed and dauntingly human. Jaded sorrow swelled as your fallibility lay naked in the gleam of reason. Those who gazed, you banished from your fading realm. Left with a dwindling orb of true believers. These days, I stand on the fringe of your ashen ruins grieving your fall, and in a sense my own. Your scripture is now read like a tabloid and discarded, thrown into obscure Delphian pools, without a ripple.