There is a sign in the sky,
the winds are changing,
flags are set to fly,
people are raging.

Stars are falling down,
people receive visions,
everyone is fighting for the crown,
marching divisions.

And as the dust is rising,
among the cries of war,
there comes a lone traveler,
never seen before.

He speaks of the future,
of destruction and death,
he says this could be,
humanity's last breath.

His words are wise,
will no one heed, but,
the people are enraged,
they attack with speed,
yet the traveler is gone,
he is nowhere to be found,
but on his way to others,
of minds more sound.

In the meantime,
the wars go on,
brave warriors proven,
yet still none won,
the battle of futility,
of empty pride and shame,
hoping all along,
someone will remember their name.

Why are all people so proud?
Why are all so desperate to stand out from the crowd?

Is it because they're afraid of oblivion?
The traveler asks himself.
They seem to want to become another book on the shelf...

So they sign their name in fire, blood and steel,
forcing thousands of innocents to kneel,
thinking by this they will be remembered as great conquerors, chosen by destiny,
truly they are wanderers,
soon to be forgotten...

Nations writhe in horror before them;
every face turns pale.
They charge like mighty men;
they scale the walls like men of war.
Each one marches in formation,
not swerving from the course.
They do not jostle one another;
each proceeds in his path.
They burst through the defenses,
never breaking ranks.
They storm the city;
they run along the wall;
they climb into houses,
entering through windows like thieves.

The Lord whispers prophecies to one to hear.
"Heal thy neighbor" he commands of the sleepwalking dead

At the temple, a candle still flickers,
and a scholar works out what was said.

"But Lord, I am but a priest.
What miracles can I divine?"

The ***** idles in silence,
but the candle will burn through the night.

Listen to me now and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.

Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.

Does a madman choose his words? They come to him,
the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.

But listen to me now, and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,

but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary.

*

Published by Penny Dreadful, The HyperTexts, the Anthologise Committee and Nonsuch High School for Girls (Surrey, England)

Also published by Michael R. Burch writing as Immanuel A. Michael and Kim Cherub

Keywords/Tags: Listen, heed, prophet, crying, wilderness, voice, prophecy, black, white, gray, moon, wind, speak, speaking, speech, instruction, teaching, warning, omen, illuminations, intimations, ears, hear, judgment, bell, toll, tolling, peal, pealing, tone, I, Am

Note: The poet as a “madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness” is likened to John the Baptist, foretelling a momentous “second coming”: his own, with no other Messiah in sight.

Wary of the worth of a moment in mortality,

consider this from

everafter. This
now
right
thought, breath of fresh
heirloom memory thread for ever more,

for what a measure of attention spent here
is worth, in terms of how we
spend hours predicting next tic
of being being us humans, wait, we or us, is
there here an ob-sub
top-bottom,
in-out
on
emerging dis-asterisk-ic fawking aural tic

me-chanical, i can-icles,

grinning like a fool, without the fool's feeling
seeping to the surface.

Each fool may take for granted hearing ears,
I say I think is true, so
I let it be true,
I believe.
y'know.

--- Leave me say, I had help. At the unbelief stage,

--- in old age, I mean, being dared to pray,
aloud
so all may hear. In 2019, that's louder than any Muza whatchallah
minaret con
cinco de-ift instancio
todo dia

WHAT LIES DO I BELIEVE?

First, I believed I knew what you believe believe means,
as an activity
we manage.

So, an answer,

it seemed, but there are all manner of unaccounted for
idle words, piling up to critical
mass

Each word ever formed to hold a meaning fast for use in futures,
past the edge of
our bubble,
dear reader, ami Am I ity or enmity --- Can't your Great Mind Requiring

Proof Positive Points Pretend?

Good, let's pretend to be.

In this garden,
This beautiful creation I've blessed with my wisdom and experience,
I see in dimensions no one else can.
My third eye gleams in the sunlight, glowing and glistening like a perfectly cut jade.

In the distance, I see my goal.
It breeches the soil and reaches for the sun's warm embrace,
Escaping the mortal coil without ever leaving its vessel.

I approach.
Through the travel, the soil beneath me turns to salt and cracks.
The bees turn to wisps of a time once forgotten,
The butterflies, ghosts of a forgotten era.
The sun and Moon become a single entity forever fused in a dance older than time itself.
The sky turns dark and bleeds attempting to warn me of the horrors protecting my ambitions.
My claim to my destiny becomes shaken.

I power forward, blinded only in the physical world.
And as I approach the apple hanging gracefully from the tree
The snake will whisper its temptations,
And God will scream and tear the heavens asunder, seeking my cursed flesh and blood.
And as I pluck my ambitions and wisdom, digesting it and the truth whole,
The corners of my stone eyes will crack,
My third eye will screech,
And I will watch as both God and the serpent battle over my intentions.

I am The Prophet.
My destiny is written by me and me alone,
And all those who take claim to my soul will be cut down by my power.

I am The Prophet.
Where my gifts and talents, ambitions and goals, and curses and vices originate
Is unknown
But these are answers that do not matter.

I will tame the serpentine prince.
I will take claim to the power your God once stole from me.
I will refuse the sun its moment to set, plunging myself in eternal sunset.
I will embrace the moon as my lover,
And I will not allow you, nor anyone, nor anything power.

I am The Prophet.
I will scan the horizon with my peripheral vision
And blind myself with the sun's direct effects
To strengthen the sight of my soul.

All my old writing was as accurate as premonition, as if I wanted a tragedy to JOLT ME from my sleep.

The silver lining is I suppose I got what I wanted,
it just wasn't the tragic self harm I dreamed of.
More like a tragic mistake that destroyed the boy I once was, and the girl I once knew.