The Prophet


I have tried everything,                         
                                   but no matter what I do  
     I cannot stop these                     
                            disconnected revelations                        
                                 from impinging themselves                        
                                 upon my mad and tormented mind. 

Pieces of my soul continue                          
                                  to be chopped up and converted                          
                                  into mental images.
          waiting to be translated                              
                                             into words.
          which my mouth has to utter,      
          and my hand has to write. 

I am a prophet.     
         A prophet without a God.                             
                                            A Godless Prophet.     
        A prophet of my own madness,               
                           of my own illusions. 
                                                          A mad Prophet.                                           
                                                          A mad Prophet.


Sanity revisited is dull and confining.               

     I burst in tears and yearn for                   
            the visions that put the universe                       

                at my fingertips.           


I am insignificant.

I am nothing   -

a hole in time,

a rip in space -

endless suffering.