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 the heart,

and the sky more volatile with twice the 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, like yellow diamonds

upon his chest; strung side by side with cosmic thread.

He is future, present and the past. He is courage fed

by Fathers brave and Mothers strong.

They have taught him well, both right and wrong.

The world unceasingly expands it's view

with open eyes and a child’s pride.

He is my harness, I love this ride.


My Prophet rises, I am He.

I have 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 the ringing,

high-pitched bells in the cathedral of my mind.

I know I am more than looks perceive,

the well is full, I have no greed,

that Christ is here and that he bleeds.

He is my lover, I am He.

12/28/2006

Posted on 12/28/2006
Copyright © 2025 Scott Utley