Poems can be like prophecies;
walls on the heart can build themselves.

Oh Jericho, what I want is what I fear.
The horn that will never come.

The words you say to yourselves,
can mean more than those to others.

A truth you spoke in a lie,
Is just your insecurities, crumbling.

A light in her eye,
Fading, now with time.

Your mind is weakening,
your love is perverted.

A poem is prophecy, he said...
I wrote Macbeth; and now I die.