Hypocritia
Hypocritia.
In the era of tender faith,
There was a woman, masked in divine allure.
Words rippled from her, like soft echoes
In a stone chapel,
Shaping belief,
Weaving awe.
Miracles fell from her fingertips,
A tapestry of blessings,
Healing passed down, and hope given away.
Her name twined with whispers, sacred,
A comfort in hardship,
Divine in human form.
Yet beneath, the shadows churned.
Miracles were mirrors reflecting the light of lies,
Truths fractured,
Lust for power whisper siren song.
Underneath the saint’s shroud, a charlatan lurked.
One day,
the Divine Eye opened,
Piercing the illusion, exposing the puppeteer
Behind the saintly marionette. Not prophet, but profiteer of faith,
The sting of betrayal seeped
into the cracks of devotion.
Her fall birthed the word: a hypocrite.
A symbol of deception,
Clothed in virtue's gown, an epitaph for broken trust.
A story inked on the soul of belief, a reminder, a guide:
Seek not the surface,
But the core of truth.
A warning reverberates,
Beware of saints self-proclaimed.
They may be hollow, their halos made of smoke.
Guard your faith, keep it close,
For truth is the compass,
In a world of masks and mirages.
Hypocritia.
In the era of tender faith,
There was a woman, masked in divine allure.
Words rippled from her, like soft echoes
In a stone chapel,
Shaping belief,
Weaving awe.
Miracles fell from her fingertips,
A tapestry of blessings,
Healing passed down, and hope given away.
Her name twined with whispers, sacred,
A comfort in hardship,
Divine in human form.
Yet beneath, the shadows churned.
Miracles were mirrors reflecting the light of lies,
Truths fractured,
Lust for power whisper siren song.
Underneath the saint’s shroud, a charlatan lurked.
One day,
the Divine Eye opened,
Piercing the illusion, exposing the puppeteer
Behind the saintly marionette. Not prophet, but profiteer of faith,
The sting of betrayal seeped
into the cracks of devotion.
Her fall birthed the word: a hypocrite.
A symbol of deception,
Clothed in virtue's gown, an epitaph for broken trust.
A story inked on the soul of belief, a reminder, a guide:
Seek not the surface,
But the core of truth.
A warning reverberates,
Beware of saints self-proclaimed.
They may be hollow, their halos made of smoke.
Guard your faith, keep it close,
For truth is the compass,
In a world of masks and mirages.
Hypocritia.
Comments
Author's Notes
A song about the famous blasphemer Hypocritia. Starts with a whisper and ends in a shout. The keen eyed may notice the lack of rhythm and rhyme, free form if you will. I have put chords on this, and with some breaks and stretched out words it does flow nicely. Aligning chords on world anvil, however, has proven to be very tedious, as explained in the author's notes here. But then again, I suspect only I will be playing this song. So the chords are mine. And you can't have them. Unless you ask nicely.