The Life of Prophet A. The First Leak

In the beginning was the drip,
A rhythmic pulse within the wall.
A silent, slow, metallic slip,
The secret heartbeat of it all.

The pipes were ancient, iron-veined,
With layers of forgotten paint.
The Prophet A. alone remained,
To hear the moaning of the saint—

The rust that grew like desert moss,
The calcified and bitter scales.
He felt the impending, heavy loss,
The truth behind the iron tales.

From the first drop, the lonely tear,
To the dark surge that drowned the floor,
He watched the creeping, silent fear,
And sensed the opening of the door.

He did not walk on water, no,
He walked through sludge and boiling steam.
He saw the hidden, poly-glow,
The vision of a plastic dream.

He brought the wrench, the holy tool,
A scepter cast in heavy steel.
To teach the house, to break the rule,
To make the stubborn concrete kneel.

From the first leak, the primal stain,
To the great flood that claimed the day,
He bore the mark, he felt the pain,
He purged the rust and swept away.

The Prophet A., in overalls of blue,
With torch in hand, a flickering light.
He made the ancient iron new,
And turned the darkness into white.

The water bowed, the deluge ceased,
The house was cleansed of rot and sin.
The Prophet sighed, the toil released,
And sealed the world from deep within.