What is it like to be a prophet?
To bleed visions the world calls madness,
to carry the storm in your lungs
and still be asked to speak sweetly.
I ran.
Through temples, through time, through the mouths of sleeping gods.
I ran, hoping to outrun the fire,
only to find my shadow already waiting-
etched into every horizon by hands not my own.
The gods marked me with knowing,
then stripped me of the right to be believed.
They call it a gift.
But it is a wound that sings.
Let the sky tremble at my silence now.
Let the earth remember what it means
to be cursed with truth.
Jun 3, 2025
Jun 3, 2025 at 12:07 PM UTC
What is it like to be a prophet?
To bleed visions the world calls madness,
to carry the storm in your lungs
and still be asked to speak sweetly.
I ran.
Through temples, through time, through the mouths of sleeping gods.
I ran, hoping to outrun the fire,
only to find my shadow already waiting-
etched into every horizon by hands not my own.
The gods marked me with knowing,
then stripped me of the right to be believed.
They call it a gift.
But it is a wound that sings.
Let the sky tremble at my silence now.
Let the earth remember what it means
to be cursed with truth.
This is what it means to be haunted by truth no one wants.
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