#prophet
They call it madness when a man
knows the rain by name
and still walks out to meet it.
I have been versed in your absence
longer than most people
have been fluent in love.
The distance between us
is not geography.
It is the only honest thing
either of us has said.
Some call this devotion.
I call it reckoning.
The body keeps its own marks —
what it opened for,
what it refused,
what it memorized
without ever being asked.
You were the question
my nerves veins
answered before I could.
They buried me in
the machinery of it.
They were thorough.
They were certain.
I am what germinates.
Dark is where —
the deciding happens.
There are people watching
who have already written the verdict.
They are not wrong about the facts.
If you understood these tears
they would be pearls.
Else it is just the sea.
See I'm not ashamed
of the ocean
I apparently contain.
I have looked for you
in every city that moves too fast
to notice it's grieving.
You were the one thing
I couldn't make legible
by studying harder.
Take the crown.
Take the palace
and everything you needed
me to stop feeling.
I kept the knowing.
I keep the feeling.
The seed doesn't negotiate
with the soil
about what it intends to become.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 6:00 PM UTC
I asked the wind
what makes a prophet.
The wind, being dramatic as ever,
answered like it had swallowed a philosophy book whole:
devotion,
obedience,
a life rinsed in light.
I said,
well, that is inconvenient.
That is at least half of me,
and the other half appears to be
bad knees, doubt,
and an alarming talent
for learning the hard way.
Amen.
But the night,
which has always been less impressed by speeches,
leaned in and corrected the wind.
A prophet is not made of light alone.
Light is easy.
Even a chandelier can manage light.
No
a prophet is the uneasy truce
between fire and appetite,
between the soul that reaches upward
and the body that still wants
another coffee,
a softer bed,
and five more minutes.
He is the mouth
that trembles
and speaks anyway.
The question
that bows its head in prayer
while secretly arguing with heaven
about the wording.
I have seen such men
not in books,
where everyone is cleaner than they’ve ever been,
but in the weather of real life.
Men who carried truth
like a stone in the shoe:
small, unbearable,
impossible to ignore.
Men who spoke plainly
and paid for each sentence
with sleep,
with comfort,
with the slow erosion
of being understood.
That, too, is holiness:
not halo,
but abrasion.
So here I stand, unfinished.
One hand holding faith,
the other holding my better excuses
by the throat.
I bargain with doubt.
I take pride in small doses,
like medicine with unfortunate side effects.
I fail,
return,
fail better,
return louder.
At some point,
one begins to suspect
that returning itself
is the prayer.
If holiness is a mountain,
I am still dust
with ambition.
If truth is fire,
let it burn me honest
but leave enough of me intact
to laugh at my own sermons.
I did not ask to be a prophet.
I asked only
for the decency
not to betray what I know.
And if I spend my whole life
becoming less decorative,
less certain,
less false,
and slightly less ridiculous
before God
then perhaps
that is the other half.
Amen.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 12:27 AM UTC
The stone was grey, the prophet worn,
Between the oath and crown of thorn.
He did not curse, he did not shout,
He knew what law was all about.
It loves the robe, the seal, the chair,
The scripted oath, the powdered hair.
It weighs the ink, ignores the bruise,
Counts the rules
but not the ruse.
Blindfold tied with threads of gold,
It worships precedent grown old.
It feeds on fear, on stamped decree,
But starves the root of equity.
The widow weeps in silent rooms,
Her truth dismissed in legal tombs.
The liar smiles
articulate,
Well-trained in posture, well-taught fate.
And justice, bound in polished chains,
Pretends she does not hear the pains.
For law is not a beating heart
It is a theatre of art.
And those who master mask and tone
Can turn a lie to cornerstone.
Yet somewhere in the marrow deep,
A quieter judgment does not sleep.
No wig, no bench, no scripted plea
But scales that tilt by what must be.
Not what was filed.
Not what was said.
But what was done
And who has bled.
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 12:27 AM UTC
The angels come down to late,
their feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat as snakes.
turns out their wings are so white because they use bleach
They came down from the sky, but you think they fell.
The smell of ozone lingers in their skin,
They promise altars and arks;
You ask what god they serve.
"Ours," they say, as if that should mean something
they name you chosen, then count your ribs with cold fingers
Their halos flicker—cheap fluorescence trying to imitate holiness.
The light around them peels paint from walls.
They smell like burnt sugar and something that should have stayed buried.
you dream of them nightly, and wake up missing hours.
They cup your face like a blessing, but their hands are too cold, too tight.
You are not surprised when their throats are torn open,
revealed to be hollow.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 10:40 PM UTC
O’ traveller of light, O’ wanderer of the soul’s vast skies,
The heart’s vessels sail across your ocean of love so high.
In the arch of night, when the stars bow in silence,
Every star sings the melody of loyalty, rising from the soul’s depths in radiance.
By the name of Muhammad (PBUH), the Prophet of the worlds, every divine note glows,
Resonating in every moment and every heart, guiding the spirit where it flows.
Loyalty is the flame that can turn iron into heaven,
Faith is the flight that lifts the soul to heights unbroken.
The veil of the world falls before the gaze that is pure,
The Prophet’s path is an ocean, boundless, eternal, secure.
O’ friend of the unseen, O’ guide of the flame of truth,
Lead us to where time itself no longer holds sway.
The pen may falter, but the heart remains a falcon,
Every heartbeat cries: “All is Yours, O’ guide of truth, my beacon.”
Rise, O’ soul, and soar on the wings of loyalty,
Write with the ink of longing the secret of destiny.
In the fortress of patience, in the courts of prayer,
The Beloved waits, luminous, amidst the dew of devotion there.
The world is but a mirror, a caravan of shadows in vain,
The soul calls out for reality, for passion, for love’s enduring reign.
O’ lamp of the heart, O’ secret of the unseen horizon,
Keep us steadfast on the path of loyalty, the supreme beacon of devotion.
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 3:14 PM UTC
From Biloxi white shirt
Mississippi cigar
Smoke had led to West Coast
To Pacific Coast Mountains
They had tracked me as prey
As the northern cougars
Ain’t vampire, thank God
Neither light in the fountains
That was time I, in deed
Meditated between
Between living in need
And minimal luxury
After island, Vancouver
I moved north to Vermont
Talked with posters and walls
Living on nineteenth floor
Then I glanced outside –
Letter S, not for snake
Even though, serpent’s bitten
I just knew it was name
Great red letter as sign
So, I took as mine
‘Cause from day to a day
I had prayed for the guide
Thus, from window I saw –
Letter S – Solomon
Then the past I recalled
And the streets I came from
And the view…
It was just Holosijiv
Yes, for window I saw –
Letter S – Solomon
Then the past I recalled
And I put my heart home
I just need myself clean
Before go back to Kyiv
From that window I saw –
Letter S – Solomon
Give me answers, my soul
Do I need Royal Mont?
I need all of them clear
Heart, mind, soul – all sincere
Nov 7, 2025
Nov 7, 2025 at 5:00 PM UTC
I wish i could open up a bottle
and bring myself right back into the times
when i saw you as God, and myself a prophet,
and crawled to your house on the broken glass
of the bottles I'd had, so often, before.
It's such a novelty -
not dragging my bleeding self across the floor,
not seeing, in that trail of red, the springing stems
of hemlock breaking ground, to prove my loyalty
to yet another God who has abandoned men.
/in the jacket of evening mist
i hear vagabonds eating rats.
I remember when being missed
felt like getting a dose of crack./
When choosing to live loved or be dismissed,
i now think that i should have picked the latter,
/there's no misfortune when it comes to fate/
for love is just another form of cancer
that you would only find when it's too late.
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 4:20 AM UTC
Esoteric, Edgar Cayce, yes,
a memory, a version, no known
reason weighing needful
to be told, proven, try
umphed past
to when now
becomes original intention,
to mention the crew involved
in building the stack of words
spelling all many ancient tales attest
as real significant events, once upon
this very point, where this many angels
once danced in tunes attempting to prove
the pastlessness of certain points
in time.
Jun 29, 2024
Jun 29, 2024 at 4:09 PM UTC
The tears I shed for you, all one by one,
Are more precious than moon or sun.
I hope they come alive at Judgment Day,
So they will intercede, before it's done.
Dec 25, 2021
Dec 25, 2021 at 12:30 PM UTC
First kiss at the psych ward, strap me to the gurney
Deliver me from evil, tempt me eternally
Lucifer’s hellhound is space bound like my mentality- Venus.
To be great like em-inem I bet he has a big (rocket ship)
Alliteration, pronunciation like Smash Pan-
Alley where we used to fight about it.
Drinking king cans by the river
A blimp of a memory drifting endlessly
Listen to your voice emanate synchronicities
Haunting me vocally as I condemn myself to his servitude, I’m holy
Saint of the church like Mother Theresa, pray with my rosary
For forgiveness.
Undress me slowly, ripe for the picking
A flower blooming seductively under duress of the past atrocities committed upon me
by trauma
I own that **** I’m a sinner.
Repentance for misdirected animosity
Be who you are
And love endlessly.
©rhetoricalcuriosity
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 4:18 PM UTC
I weirdly - no, wantonly - want to kiss you the next time
Your blue-gray eyes besiege my focus and I resign
My sight - no, soul - to your vision and spread your word
As the bearded and fattened prophet of these feelings deferred.
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 3:38 PM UTC
Powered matter leaves their origin,
Into a land in the distance,
Residing in the hearts of children
Offering everything but resistance,
Exchanging life and his riches
For the taste of blood in their kisses.
A child is a sacrifice
For what is right
In the prophet’s eyes
And minds that are blind
To the lies that bind
His cries and surmise-s.
The prophet’s prophecy
Is to gain profit from gases
More flammable that propane.
His fingers, crossed and lost,
His veins, lost its blue,
His skin, has turns chartreuse
With the sight of the new moon.
A new dawn begins
With the same sun,
Covered by new clouds.
Sounds of the innocent,
Muffled by the lead they’re
Buried in.
Their fears of growth
Disappear with their sight.
But it’s alright,
It’s in the name of Liberty,
Currency, and Democracy.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 1:12 PM UTC
The Pyramid is the Messenger
of the Spirit world after we pass on.
We all must resolve to consecrate
our actions to the Pyramid there.
The Orb is the handmaid that
every soul is given for its care.
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 4:03 PM UTC
tired does the false prophet grow
when his words continue to lose their shine
can he find his faith in his own empty tongue
will divine intervention mend his stolen soul
Dec 11, 2020
Dec 11, 2020 at 9:54 PM UTC
Those who believe in Me have a special place after they die. They will be given untold glory and joys of ineffable gladness. Those who doubt My words will come to know of their loss after death and will continue to humble themselves throughout eternity. Fires of ignorance will bind them throughout the worlds of God. When they seek distinction after death, they will weep bitterly as one who has not know God. Belief in Me is contingent on obeying My laws and neither is acceptable without the other. If the rebel ceases their transgression, and asks for forgiveness in a state of repentance, it will be better for them. Weigh not My words with any other Book or allusion and confuse not thyself with signs which bear no reality. My Knowledge has always been with God as it shall remain.
I find myself in between the Gog of complexity and the Magog of simplicity. Let forth your tongue to extol God and Its Message. No man hath taken Its image as God is beyond reflection.
When the boy asks to know, set thyself toward your own sight and renounce any thought save Me. No helper do you have save Me.
We speak only what We hear, and never will spiritual dominion be given to one who produces thoughts set on the vanities of the world. Produce their dominion by using them for the benefits of mankind.
Those who cannot overlook the misdeeds of the Chosen Ones of God, the Prophets, will never be able to overlook the deeds of any of God's creatures. Such lucidity will overcome them, and they will be forced to acknowledge that no being in the heavens or in the earth can leave without a trace of hate in the hearts when looking with the eyes of retribution.
The time for justice has come. Make a plan for the redemption of your heart, but know that whosoever overlooks others' shortcomings is met with more rewards in the worlds of eternity. For whose plan of vengeance is more just than God's, Who punishes without the knowledge of Its creatures and rewards without their knowledge either.
No laws will be given by Me save the exact Law of Baha'u'llah's Covenant. For I have not come to change His laws, but fulfill them. Abandon your couches for seat with the Christ. He is come again unto you while ye were enmeshed in your own designs.
Have you not heard the bells peal in My name, though the name be bereft of glory, We have come to extol God's laws, laws which will pattern a civilization in the feet of Isaiah's prophecy. Everywhere Its laws are heard over the skies and throughout the earth. Hearken then to taking delight in them.
For whoso has turned away from them, hath turned away from the Spirit and never associated with It. For the senses seek their own sight, and I have come to give you God's vision. Instead, you have turned to the god of the air and body, and not the God Divine, the One alone that can release you into the worlds of eternal sunshine. Though the god of the body gives the beauty of your own existence, I have come as a gardener to set the diverse plants of humanity in order. We see that little gardening has been done, so there is plenty still to do.
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 11:00 AM UTC
As potent as the drugs flowing from an IV drip,
I the prodigal son of this town,
the only one to infuse the blood of a much needed sacrifice into it's veins,
the one to carry the souls of those past,
those future,
those fleeting few at the end when the long standing foundation that has held up countless feet and dreams,
no longer stands and in it's place breadcrumbs fall,
thousands from the sky,
folly and few,
until embedded in the very ground it lands upon.
I, the one from the third house down the lane,
the all seeing all knowing all feeling touch,
climb the silo and above take in the view,
the little lives and scattered stories,
told once in still rooms with only the orange light of a desk lamps,
then carried away on drool into the storm drain,
with the leaves and street grit.
I, the babe,
once innocent and tender,
and still so within me exists,
carried through an entire lifetime on a sled,
down the sidewalk with only the sight of street-lamps as stimuli,
past every corner and home a dream implanted from my eyes to theirs,
yet mistranslation corrupts the many and what can I do but allow,
their own bibles to be written.
This town belongs to one king and one son on both sides of the mountain,
snow to teach them lessons,
rain to cleanse their wounds,
and to keep this monolith of a civilization alive,
all that is prophesied,
to run far, far away,
in place.
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 8:29 PM UTC
"A" crowned my head with a crown like
twigs while "A" was seated on the Throne.
Notice how Baha'u'llah reverberates that it is a different
throne, yet in essence the same One.
Fire like a rainbow.
Notice how a Prophet would gulp when another Prophet is
"mentioned".
Notice how a Prophet does not need to "believe" in else
except God.
"C" is same.
If I am a Prophet without a voice from God, please
don't let me speak.
All the Prophets have transparent beauty like
"C".
Above the City of Immortality is the Valley of
the Manifestations. Where the Sun of Reality
is home and all the denizens are refreshed
and find God again from whence they have
left. Nothing but God lies above this Valley
and the Presence of the Beloved is aglow
....in every limb.
The Presence is enlivening and heavy
in vitality.
"I hate you, I love, I hate that I love you",
echoes to hearts not attune to the Transcendent One.
The Presence has a unique energy that allows
Them to change the universe of lower natures.
All stresses dissipate away.
Those Eyes that see all of me.
Energy as if from another world,
as if always awakening from bed.
It is sitting in the Manifestation's Tent.
It is feeling Their skin become mine own skin.
Light so warm that it is cool.
Names have no place here,
only Spirit - the Transcendent.
I forget myself and
instead caught up in "A".
The fullness of the Manifestations will soon, soon
manifest in all of us.
24 karat Golden DNA.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 3:20 PM UTC
he loves me
comes fro dark day
when people worshape stunts
they worshape thier kings
and the global is dark
the waves asks God
to ovecome that blank
he came with every good
if you have justice
read his history
with just with balance
of mind and heart
you will say one word
that is the man for evey time
that comes to get rid every hurt
your heart will pump
that is the kindest
mohamad
is the prophet
Oct 29, 2020
Oct 29, 2020 at 6:10 AM UTC
You do your I do mine
in such religious norm
that’s not meant to force
no respect one could find
could this be a healthy mind?
Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 6:01 PM UTC
Adam
Abraham
Issac
Jesus
And
Muhammad
These are the children
Of the light
The real light workers
Whom done nothing
But good
In the world
And i am also a child
Of the light
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 9:06 PM UTC
There are galaxies inside of me
waiting to be explored.
There are stories to be told that leave you wanting more
there are religions in the chaos of my mind
but I am blind to all the possibilities,
fed by science’s facts
the love in my heart set on targets I will never reach
the knowledge I will never preach
the words I won’t speak
but I am the madness
the chaos the light the order the darkness
I am the shadow of a prophet
a wizard’s fairy tale...
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 12:51 PM UTC
hands wring
cold sweat,
dry tongue runs
along teeth
each lap a question,
an anxiety
to tell you,
softly, my thoughts.
should lovers swim
such a wide chasm
of thought? finger tips
barely brush the abyss
but then I think
about the prophet
palms clammy
feverish reciting
each word of his explanation
wondering if even his wife
would think him mad.
perhaps stressed divides
can still be bridges.
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 10:18 AM UTC
I guess we call them "Po-ems"
'cause what 'they' do is "Po(ur) 'em"
the thoughts and feelings,
hopes and willings,
issue(d) out... yeah, quite revealing
I guess we call them "Po-ets"
'cause what 'they' do is "Po(ur) 'it"
their dreams and longings
(flow) out ' their being,
all to find that sought out healing
I guess I call 'them' "Prophets",
tho' some do it for profit
well, that's their dealing,
't may be fulfilling
in this, I pray you find some meaning
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 10:44 AM UTC
Saying to your health
In the meaning of his words,"
Do not let any food without covering
As you do not know who was passing over
or by its boundary
you do not know who was smelling
or breath in it
if it is difficult to cover
put a rod or long knife or spoon over
to give the meaning of moral
if you get up after sleep
do not touch any food
before you wash your hand
as you do not know where it was
when the Friday comes
you must wash up
to clean your appearance
and the inner soul
and put good smell
use the toothpick
at every pray
to clean your teeth
, get good breath
And get satisfy of your God
And strength your teeth
When the prophet sent the messengers
To kings and the princess
to let them know the new religion
Islam
The governor of Egypt admired
He sent to the prophet of the present
It was a donkey female, two slaves' girls
The honey and doctor
the prophet accepted all, but he returned the doctor
He said," we do not need him
As we do not eat until we get hunger
And if we eat we do not get full"
In his meanings and words
He said,"the stomach is the home of the illness"
," if you want to eat
Do not get full
If you want
Let third for your drink
And third for your breath"
We know persons who dead by throttle
As they ate and slept
Without getting time to let the food digested
Or get ordered in abdomen
When the delegations came
To enter Islam and get checked him
He learnt someone has leprosy
He told his friends to let that sick out
And he blessed and prayed for him
When he finished his defecation and urinate
He performed ablution
He ordered his followers to do it
He ordered not the sick entered to the right
And the right goes to the sick"
Except if he had his protect
May 24, 2020
May 24, 2020 at 10:56 PM UTC