He entered like a prophet
with a podium for a throne,
swinging righteousness like shrapnel
in a war he didn’t own.
Yes he strode into the war room
with a halo made of brass,
thumping scriptures on the table
like a general at Mass.
He preached in borrowed thunder,
lit the cameras with his creed,
mistaking faith for strategy
and spectacle for need.
He spoke of holy fire
as the cameras drank it in,
a televangel soldier
with a jawline set to win.
Maps curled at his fervour,
briefings buckled under gloss,
as he blessed each blundered order
with a counterfeit of cross.
Maps became his altar cloth,
drones his choir on high,
and every strike a sermon
meant to sanctify the sky.
He blessed the bombs for broadcast,
he anointed every shell,
declaring righteousness would guide
the infidels to hell.
So the war rolled on in circles
as his sermons filled the air,
a crusader of convenience
with a martyr’s vacant stare.
But outside his gleaming war room
the world was less impressed:
allies winced at every flourish,
foes grew zealously obsessed.
The generals kept their silence,
the diplomats their breath,
for nothing’s more combustible
than a zealot armed with death.
And history, ever patient,
scribbled quietly in the margins:
Beware the holy showman
who mistakes his role for pardons
And somewhere in the margins
where the real decisions wait,
history sharpened quietly
its patience into fate.
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3 March 2026