My prophet rises from snow white sands. He is 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. Back 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. I see 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’ve taught him well, right from wrong. The world unceasingly expands its view. With open eyes and a child’s pride in God as 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 still so much I’ve yet to learn. My metamorphosis is marked by tubular bells within this cathedral I call my mind. I know I am more than looks perceive. Each well is full. I have no greed. Christ is here and he no longer bleeds. He is my lover. I am He.

07/28/2012

Posted on 07/29/2012
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