The chipped mill stone disaster machine churns.
The grist is ground to different forms, and names.
A lava flow of self hatred, yet burns.
He’s haunted by perils of endless flames.
Again, he approaches, then he retreats.
These days, he finds he’s nearly out of fuel.
He dodges boulders, hurled at his own feet.
All that is left is bone, ground into gruel.
His pride has left the building long ago.
His ego can no longer hide from truth.
He shuns the proper places he should go.
He locks himself in medication’s booth.
His holy book remains within arm’s reach.
He must survive this storm, so he can teach.