Moses

He saw the finger write in stone,
the tower of fire and whirlwind,
all doubts erased. The crack
and echo of that colossal loss
would bellow in his ear's ache
until he was wrapped behind stone,
left for the promised disinterment.

How would you feel, in the vast
violent face of things once merely
ruminations, in the brutal brunt
of dreams made loudly, brightly real?
You would wear the whitened mop,
would stumble and bear the signs
dizzy from epiphany, consumed,
weathered with such shock and solace.

Behold, he croaked, this adman
back from a sudden unmasking
laden with proscriptions, conferee
entrusted with his ten bold proofs.
Down the mountain he came, affluent
at all pores, bloated with knowledge,
not an ounce of faith left in him.