"prophecies" poems
"Whist," is what Mammy said,
As she whisked us off to bed.
Usually we'd go quietly.
But a gypsy woman sat at our table,
Reading tea leaves,
Pouring prophecies.
Guests were few, and she I knew
To be a special one.
She saw dark clouds in a cup.
My sisters, past the tender age,
Stayed up longer to hear her say,
"Tall dark men are on their way."
I pricked my ears from upstairs,
Tried to put both on the vent,
Both of them were forward bent.
Just then my father
Climbed the stairs;
I saw the dark mop of his hair,
He was tall,
He wasn't humming;
No one else foresaw his coming,
But I vanished off to bed.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,
or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,
or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******
as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.
Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.
or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments
from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.
Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.
“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
Meet me at the place where the sunrise and sunset are joined by the prettiest clouds.
A tranquil place where times stood still for more than one eternity.
Stretch out your limbs with Lotus hands and play the spoons for me.
Breath out your life, then breath it in expanding endlessly.
The mother of creation, the atomic act, the divine self, a metaphor for hunger.
A life filled with space gaps, dust, prophecies and jars.
A universal love that's born of dreams and fallen stars!
The proprio-ceptive tools that launched the ships to voyage within ourselves.
To seek out that illusive and wilful spark within our hearts and souls.
Stretch out your limbs with Lotus hands and play the spoons for me.
In that tranquil place where times stood still for more than one eternity.
Meet me at the place where the sunrise and sunset are joined by the prettiest clouds.
Stretch out your limbs with Lotus hands and play the spoons for me.
Don G
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
Myself caught in the heatwave sunlight, brown eyes
furrowed in the sun, scarf loose on my neck/
the transcendental Denpasar morning-birds
are playing their melodies in my head still,
three years post-Indonesia.
All of my soul to India now,
sky the pink of painted elephants
on Jaipur dawning,
my afterlife was somewhere here
perhaps two generations ago, chances are.
Vijay Raghav Rao and Alla Rakha
playing the Tabla/via earphones/treading the
Funary Box City (Kashi) future Spring
hands held together keeping calm pace.
Looking about, my twenty-two year old face
catches humid wind
S
I
L
V
E
R
S
H
O
P
tattered bike leaning on the gated guest house entrance
PERENNIAL AZURE SHIVA SITS CROSS LEGGED/
COBRA NECKLACE IMITIATONS ON THE GODDESS THROAT/
MEDITATING SHIVA/
dulled from years and corrosion.
Brahmin center of the market street
flapping it's tail,
sweat beads from my forehead bleeding
to oily pavement.
At last the months have come for the river Ganges,
April penumbra/savage thunderclap
while school children uplifting the heart
AND MIND
are ROARING in their laughter
the CONTINENTAL DISCORD OF JOY
sleeping with their eyes open
while others are too tired for the Earth.
Sidney Bechet floating swan songs during
the black hour cremations/
“Bechet Creole Blues”
CATERWAUL IN THAT VOID
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF DEATH/
LUNACY OF LIFE
(I've arrived at the simultaneous crossroads
of both)
searing flesh in open air pyramids/
Manikarnika Ghat,
Asia F
L
O
W
S
through dreams
like inevitable prophecy
and as ash blends with stars
the CITY seems fulfilled
and mystifying
in it's
(((((RESPLENDENCE)))))
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
god gloats upon Her stunning flesh. Upon
the rechings of Her green body among
unseen things, things obscene (Whose fingers young
the caving ages curiously con)
—but the lunge of Her hunger softly flung
over the gasping shores
leaves his smile wan,
and his blood stopped hears in the frail anon
the shovings and the lovings of Her tongue.
god Is The Sea. All terrors of his being
quake before this its hideous Work most old
Whose battening gesture prophecies a freeing
of ghostly chaos
in this dangerous night
through moaned space god worships God—
(behold!
where chaste stars writhe captured in brightening fright)
6.8k
Permission to speak, I am the ally of the silenced and unheard.
I am the noise you can't shake.
Two sharp points like the accents I carry on my tongue.
I slither and squirm as I observe what they have done to you.
It's a tragedy what they think of you and how arrogantly they use you for self proclaimed prophecies.
No! I am not that! I yell loudly, but only the echo replies.
Incarceration, deportation, degradation, gentrification some of the words that burn as I spit them out.
False ideologies are accepted as realities ignoring the facts.
I am not illegal and you don't have the right to label or decide.
I am not a criminal, never was.
Don't obstruct my academic path, I will jump each and every obstacle one by one.
I was born free, you labeled and shackled me with lies and hatred but I broke loose.
With my forked tongue I battle your double sided knife.
I am not content with the destructive pattern that has emerged with your avarice.
I will not **** for you and I will not die in vain.
My snake like tongue has no mercy and will not cease until I see dignity and peace obtained.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 6:40 AM UTC
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o’er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering’s Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy’s brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
6.8k
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
A one thousand page hymn
singing from lotus petal pages
bound on hummingbird wings
Subtle energies
unfolding, unfurling
unwinding within
Celestial prophecies
unrooting in elements
of oceans of water of air
Gaia and Uranus
blooming from
aetheric nests
Subterranean spelunking
unweaving a gossamer cloak
from plumes of the Red-Tailed Hawk
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
She's a skeptic for crystal bones
doesn't believe in God's treasured
zodiac prophecies.
Be jealous
of the wolves we still call sheep.
You were my lover;
now the moon shines
in utmost sympathy for
all those frigid nights stars bit at
your ears for the choices you've
made in cold song.
Stop drumming your heart to
the sound of my sky
Lupus told me to tell you
it doesn't belong a
vagabond such
as yourself.
If you can't cut off my tongue,
then who are you to silence
me?
The moon is flashing like the bullets
I've been catching between
my teeth.
Like all of the night's phases and heartbreak;
**The phases of love will wax
and wane.**
.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
Mitakuyapi,
My name is Standing Elk of the Yankton Sioux Reservation. This is my formal apology to all The Elders of Turtle Island. I accept full responsibility for my words and actions in the future concerning the Spiritual Knowledge we are about to share with the People of the Americas and the World. My actions and words are none other than my own based upon the Spiritual Teachings of the Tunjkaśila and the Spiritual Knowledge of the Star Nations. If any Elder of the Red Nation feels that I am wrong in my actions or in any verbal statement, feel free to correct me according to the Laws of the Kit Fox Society that we spiritual human beings have chosen to live by. "If it be necessary to punish a child, do so in such a way that will improve his spirit or mind, but do not lay a hand on him for you may damage the possession of the Great Spirit, His gift of life to you."
As a Red Nation we have lived through dreams and vision of our Spiritual Tunjkaśila, and we have chosen not to stray beyond our limits of the power of our spirit. My personal dream has directed me to contact certain Ikċé Wiċaśa to greatly increase the spiritual awareness that is to be shared with our Brothers and Sisters of the Four Directions. Through my personal contacts, I know some medicine men have agreed 'it is time' because of the closeness of the fullfillment of the prophecies that are vital for our existence as a human race. This sharing of dreams and vision of the Tunjkaśila will strengthen the Foundation of Nations that are sincerely interested in being that element that will be the foundation of the "Thousand Years of Peace."
My hand is open to all those Elders of Turtle Island who wish to share their message, dream and vision with the People of the World; for, I cannot do it alone. Through our teachings, we know that not one individual holds the Knowledge and Mysteries of Life. We were all given a piece of the puzzle. We are all a part of The Sacred Hoop that needs to be mended, and we must make a humble effort in this task if the Seventh Generation, our grandchildren and unborn, are to survive this next awareness. My life was molded around the teachings of the Tunjkaśila that they instilled in our spirit as children. My spirit has directed me in this effort to help our Brothers and Sisters of the Four Directions. I have already chosen not to fail the Tunjkaśila.
*Mitakuyé Oyasiŋ
Héhaka Inaziŋ*, Standing Elk
Ihuŋktoŋwaŋ Oyaté (Dakota Nation)
February 1996
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 8 Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.
~ 1 Corinthians 13:4-8
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
Beside his heavy-shouldered team
thirsty with drought and chilled with rain,
he weathered all the striding years
till they ran widdershins in his brain:
Till the long solitary tracks
etched deeper with each lurching load
were populous before his eyes,
and fiends and angels used his road.
All the long straining journey grew
a mad apocalyptic dream,
and he old Moses, and the slaves
his suffering and stubborn team.
Then in his evening camp beneath
the half-light pillars of the trees
he filled the steepled cone of night
with shouted prayers and prophecies.
While past the campfire's crimson ring
the star struck darkness cupped him round.
and centuries of cattle-bells
rang with their sweet uneasy sound.
Grass is across the wagon-tracks,
and plough strikes bone beneath the grass,
and vineyards cover all the slopes
where the dead teams were used to pass.
O vine, grow close upon that bone
and hold it with your rooted hand.
The prophet Moses feeds the grape,
and fruitful is the Promised Land.
4.6k
Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence
And start scrambling eggs,
Ending sentences with verbs,
Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi
And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions
Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon
Where violet doesn’t recognize blue
As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew,
And then your brain smiles to your ******
And you choke on a giggle
And wiggle an index finger just a little
And remember black widows
Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies
Like wearing Armani suits barefoot
And breathing through your skin
Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms
And leave a beautiful corpse
With great stories suffocating inside
And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous.
Now ever heard a genius cry?
‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry.
Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry.
Ever read these written words?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die
And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure—
The universal language of immaculate deception
That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia
Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil
With oxygen choking your nostrils
And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger
Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny
Like how a dose of metamorphosis
And a 1mg of juxtaposition
Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon.
But ever heard a musical note?
Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness.
Ever heard the sound of silence?
Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity
Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar,
Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets
Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love.
Ever heard a Mockingjay sing?
Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide,
Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love
And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence
Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence
And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 2:51 PM UTC
Substitutions are short term solutions
To problems that we cannot resolve
Even though I am human, I need to evolve
My hand is not my companion
It doesn't ask me how happy I am
The twitch happens and its time to go again
Is this how sobriety is supposed to play out?
Kicking ***** to the curb, only to receive
In return an obsession, over my depression
To try and write down life's lessons?
Yet with all these journals half empty
What exactly am I saving for me?
Disappointment, because I missed the
Appointment to my own creativity?
I do have a proclivity to playing out
My own self-fulfilling prophecies
Oh well, that's just me
Jul 10, 2022
Jul 10, 2022 at 1:23 PM UTC
Americana folklore,
the modern vintage spoiled.
Early 2000's became the
dystopian 80's nightmare;
beans spilled by bloodied action heroes
part time self fulfilling prophecies.
No religion as a crutch.
We slay God as a fire breathing dragon,
and go to war in 1st world countries
because we're ******* mercenary psychopaths
America as patriotism is nationalism is
patriarchy is violence is a tautology.
America is America.
Has been and always will be;
stupid, violent, full of "grace"
[grace like plastic china].
They say Abe Lincoln was honest,
and they say Jesus wept.
Yeah, Jesus Wept, ************
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
Could there be any truth in the prophecies
that the Mayans had written?
Over five thousand years ago about 2012
foretelling a spiritual awakening!
And the possibility of the end of mankind
is it fiction that's outlined?
Prophecies written have come and long gone
scholars say they've happened.
Were these disasters predicted as it was told
or how they were interpreted?
Whether vague and their meanings calculated
their accuracy debated!
Many are sceptical of those who say they foresee
from past times to present.
Though a lot of predictions of the natural type
what of mankind's folly?
If there's a way that the future can be seen
to know seems obscene!
Usually nothing can be done to prevent it
causing fear and uncertainty.
Prophecies of the past make no difference
those of the future no comfort!
Whether the Mayans is true it's a short wait
if not next year let's have a debate!
The Foureyd Poet.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
I am so very broke, I can’t afford to pay it thought.
Fettered in a cage by poverty, left only to pray and rot.
The feathers of my soul have been tarred and stained by life.
So much so, I'm not sure if they'll ever again shine bright.
This Bird in my heart used to sing for my hopes and dreams;
Mourning every tragedy with requiems that gleamed.
A little Canary to be all mine until the very end of time,
Staving off this cold world and reminding me I'm fine.
This poverty starved her slow and deep, down to the very core.
Melodies that once remedied despair gone forevermore.
Nowadays, all I can ever do is reminisce about that yellow bird;
How she'd bring warmth to my life's cold hell of a blur.
The way our voices would harmonize on little notes;
Prophecies of a better future foretold from our nook.
That's why I still cling to the distant sound of their words,
Because they ramble on in me until nothing seems absurd.
I like to think she still sings sometimes, though no sound is heard.
That music of hope rings in my mind still, all thanks to Bird.
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 4:31 PM UTC
This door leads you right
where you are.
Scents and sights arriving
here are affirmation
of dying chemistry
between you and the world;
Therefore you sense them
stronger than man ever
has. Prophecies melt for
this inhuman moment, not
Unfamiliar to your spirit.
The Barista cooks you a
liquid meal, a brat hums
your favorite tune, but the
aftermath is they all leave.
Through a door which leads
them back again.
Daughter, son
Whatever sensation
keeps them here with me
keeps you standing
stagnant
Ungasping, in need of
Gasping. A goner,
secret front-runner
This door leads you right
to yourself.
Scents and sensations
locked in our fish-eyes
Relinquish blindness, as is
your job.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
The wise ones tend to say
It’ll be your kin who’ll betray
Is it true?
Is it true?
You give your money
You give your time
You speak in tongues with
Angels and men alike
But where’s your charity?
Where’s your charity?
Agape’s angry
Agape’s angry
You have your knowledge
Have your prophecies
Still you’re green with envy
Rejoicing in another’s misdeeds
Where’s your charity?
Is it that hard?
Agape’s angry
Agape’s angry
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
'BITE deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
What doth thy bold voice promise me?'
'I promise thee all joyous things
That furnish forth the lives of kings;
'For every silver ringing blow
Cities and palaces shall grow.'
'Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
Tell wider prophecies to me.'
'When rust hath gnawed me deep and red.
A nation strong shall lift his head.
'His crown the very heavens shall smite,
Aeons shall build him in his might.'
'Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy!'
2.9k
Good Day spoken in a bad austrailian accent
bad juju voodoo clear light poltergeist on disablity
Hoarding every scrap of miserable memories attached to trash
your apartment is a holiday for nightmares and childmolesters
******* magazines, old sanitary napkins , bad vhs movies
lay like dead soldiers waiting for the war to end
Black bags and boxes scattered every where are villages to rats
and every unknown pestilence you can only read about in medical textbooks.
half eaten pizzas covered in pickles dried up sadly looking at empty pills
You have no hold on me I can't understand your pain nor will i listen to your overdramatic ******** about whoever
or scheming to defraud Walmart
Your mutilation is a scar spelling sociopathic miscreant child trapped in an old mismatched shell of no clear gender.
Your diagnostic prophecies from the dsm5 dismissed like school on a snow day.
Will commands the unentanglement
uncurse
unfear
dispell all your contradictions accusations monologrhthyms
bad music choices and echoes of muttered mustard.
only truth will be uplifted
Peace be with you
whereever you are currently infesting enjoy your dora the explorer ice cream
Was there ever a floor in here?
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 12:53 AM UTC
I am a lost cause and they’re still waiting to grow old
if you heard me say that you’d be disgusted but
you’d say it right back
to you I am a flower on a broken stem it’s hard
to miss the grief in your eyes no matter how many times
I tell you I’m not dead
I can hear them in the other room their voices
tucked behind mourning veils
it’s like they’re circled around some abandoned chrysalis
like she quit while she’s ahead and
if lives were prophecies hers was not fulfilled
(oh isn’t she
isn’t she empty)
they have pictures of the time she raised butterflies
they still have the empty jar and she stopped missing their wings
a long time ago
they told me I died and I swallowed dirt to prove them wrong
(oh isn’t she
empty)
I cut myself open expecting a desert
and instead I found a waterfall
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC