A gifted boy, young Paul Atreides,
taught from youth by his lady mother,
the Bene Gesserit Witch.
She sculpts him in her ways arcane,
(for the sons of royalty often meet with Treachery)
she teaches him to be
uncanny.
The Old Reverend Mother deigns to test him,
preaching to he
politics of kingship,
full of warning
and cynicism of high office;
he proves, (within utmost pain)
And she elevates him to human,
cackling as she stamps him with strangeness.
From boy to un-man he grows,
in strength, potential, and
Purpose like the killing point of a blade
(which may lack artistry, but is employed out of necessity).
Honed to perfection he becomes,
computations a whirl of cold
observations,
calculating like his father the Hawk:
a Duke among lesser birds.
From parched and care-worn throats
dusty peasants croak “Madhi?”
His mother thrills at this touch of destiny,
recollecting the signs and whispering
(orchestrated theologies),
“Does he
fulfill
all prophecies…?”
His Voice obtains balance of tone and nuance,
the irresistible Authority of royalty;
he fits their fulfillment and infect them with purpose,
to his Glory they scream,
“Madhi!”
Unyoked they pour like blood from the vein,
unchecked they rape and they kill in His Name,
fire and ruin they claim,
To
his
Shame
They fight for his Glory.
With hands to his eyes he shudders,
every casting of the future utters
RUIN
pointing to him,
God on High
of Might and War.
Burn out his eyes and make him a martyr,
cripple him, a broken hero,
they’ll send him to his dunes,
The Messiah,
eternally praised for the curse of his purpose;
endless sightless visions his burden:
Mad King, Visionless Prophet
who dared to shape the future “for the masses”
he would say, when at heart
he was a pampered lad who had not
set foot across their thresholds,
dined at their tables, dated their daughters,
And conceived a loving reflection
to the way and the shape of their lives.
(He was the God that failed)
~Anna Chlewicki Lightfoot
