The Prophets

by Robert Jones Jr.

It won’t that people loved the strong. No. The strong were only to be feared, placated, lied to in the hopes of acquiring favor, a comfort, even if for a moment. It was that they despised the weak. They despised weakness because there was none of the pomp and fervor erected to disguise its essential nature like there was with the strong. In the frail mercy that is weakness, deception’s weight cannot be borne. Everything collapses, leaving only the debris, the casualties, and a fine layer of dust coating the air. This becomes trapped in the lungs and chokes all who inhale, and all must rightfully inhale; nature commands it. That is to say that weakness is but a stark reflection of the faces most wish to hide. The sad face, the mourning face, the weeping face that has stared into the abyss and discovered that there is nothing staring back. Empty. There was only us: Empty’s children, every single one a cannibal. Weakness revealing how miserable it be that there ain’t no such a thing as grace.