Looking at you across the way, I see the intellectual—a thinker dedicated to the Socratic Method.  Armed with tenets of the spoken word, you advance your ideals with poise, confident in your espousal of all things inherently cogent…

But it doesn’t make you right.

As I enter the verbal thrust and parry, your savvy marks you my better in logic and allure—a master of dominating argument backed by learned idiom.  Twisting about in debate’s aggression, you cleanly pierce the heart of my manifest ineptitude…

But it doesn’t make you right.

You don the gleaming crown of knowledge, your mantle broad with tokens of triumph—a great shrine of testimony witnessed in a reflection of grandeur.  Assured of your standard borne, you march forth through the sands of mortal time…

But it doesn’t make you right.

See me, oh victor, as you turn to make your way!  Witness the spark you deny, for the wanton emblems of mastery bedazzle you, veiling the light you’ve so capably banished.  See me now, for I am the one whose unique faith you shall never glimpse again.

It doesn’t make me wrong.

Heed me, oh victor, with your insensate ears!  Regard the matter you dismiss, for within your vainglorious trappings lies a soul not unlike the one ground beneath your feet.  Heed me now, for I am the man disdained behind the very mask you wear.

It doesn’t make me wrong.

Take me, oh victor, though your strident arms be cruel!  Embrace that which you slay, for the opportunity is soon to pass, and forever shall I fade into the shadows of your mind.  Take me now, for I offer unending warmth not of mortal flesh, but that of God Himself.

In temporal defeat, I am your last spiritual warning. 

It doesn’t make me wrong.

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