The Madness of Isaiah

I walk on a stone bruise right where plantar
becomes arch and my cracked heels
testify to the dry clay I stumble over
to breathe out the words of shame nudity
brings the wanderer. Sackcloth may chafe
but the grit blown in the wind scours clean
my brow and exfoliates better
than skin rejuvenation could ever claim,
both leave me red and tender.

My enervated face struggles to remain stoic
in the blind dark of a moonless night,
when silence seems to scream in my ears
and night's dew, though cool, burns
the places dust and grit have made raw.
Each fold and crease tenderized
with pulverised silicates. Parts of me turning
pink to ruby, pale to burgundy, and soft to pulp.
My body cannot find a comfort to rest upon
as each muscle and curve twitches, sensitive
to even the wind's breath, soft and gentle
to the storm battered land but a flail to my wounds.

What should this prove to one who fails in offering
succour to the devastated survivors
of events their hands have had no part in bringing?
He spews words of shame to the helpless
when there are few capable hands reaching
out to assist. His derision of leaders ridiculous
to those who recognize his incapacity to lead,
even on a well-marked path. His herd of goats
bleat, contented to feed on ragweed and thistle,
as he feasts on delicacies bought with wages
failed to pay to those who labour on his behalf.

Shame to the governing power as it prances
in silk while people gather meager sustenance,
sky-clad and weary, on those very beaches
they promise to defend. Shame to those gorging
on goat meat even as their shepherds struggle
to hold the herd together. Shame to those
who fail to see suffering while imposing rule
and restrictions on the ones who writhe beneath
their lash. Shame even as I am shamed
in nakedness, stumbling in garbage and waste,
through a wilderness of ignorance and imperfection,
and hoping for a better way revealed tomorrow.