My prophet rises from snow white sands.
He's cut and bruised with bloody hands.
His metamorphosis is marked by purple flowering feathered wings,
immaculately conceived. He reaches into the eye of the sky
and fondles memories from before my time.
Back when this river flowed with twice it's heart,
and the sky more volatile with twice it's strike.
When this desert land was twice as young,
He walked along these very skies now dusked across my mind,
like a churning, holy, electrical explosion.


My prophet rises from the deep blue sea
with gaping wounds for all to see.
His metamorphosis is marked by the inhalation
of deep and conscious breath. He has yellow diamonds
upon his chest strung side by side with cosmic thread.
He is future, present; he's the past.
He's courage fed by fathers brave, mothers strong.
They've taught him well right from wrong.
This world unceasingly expands it's view.
With opened eyes and a child's pride,
He is my harness. I love this ride.


My Prophet rises. I am He.
I've wept in pain but now I'm free.
Upon this sand my heart is burned.
There is so much I have to learn.
My metamorphosis is marked by high-pitched
bells ringing through the cathedral of my mind.
I know I'm more than looks perceive.
My well is full. I have no greed.
Christ is here. He surely bleeds.
He is my lover. I am He.

08/24/2006

Posted on 08/24/2006
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