prophet
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This is our last chance to grieve
Dear Lord, I was only thirteen
The host of trepidation freshly forgot,
You coerced forgiveness from fester and rot
You were the prophet
With the truth of life written
Across your palms
And I would pray that
Your overlapping sentences
Would complete my broken ones
And replace time with
Perfect memories
We were not meant to be a people whole.
Our bodies divide humanity’s soul.
We were born broken,
so that the life may pass through us,
so that windy gusts may not topple us.
