Iconoclast

In my youth
I stood exalted
above the heads
of all before me.
Their eyes uplifted
in rapturous praise.
Resplendent in my new
and colourful garb.
The light exploding
from my pores
and casting
rainbow shadows.

In my middle age
I was feared.
Turned into
a gaudy icon
to illuminate
cold, grey, battles
of the soul.
The true love
of my creation
shrouded
in a steely
battle dress of hate.

Now,
in my old age,
I stand
a broken man.
Arms outstretched
in a once strong pose
now appear
weak and pleading.
My colours gone,
hidden behind
an age old veneer
of dust and grime.

Cracked and broken.
Master of an empty chamber.
There is no one to hear
my once, bright, Hallelujah.
There is no love or hope
for me here.