MY PROPHET

Mystified by the way you talk
as you testify and the people balk,
you wont lick their shoes,
you wont clean their sheets,
and still you smile as they mire
the magnificent gleam
of your gold paved streets.

It’s not every day that I find
words like grenades that explode in my mind,
written on wide ruled paper.
Spitting on society’s rock
like the spray from the breakers,
not caring to rest on the thin blue lines.

You stand in the spotlight,
a prism in hand
and as the light descends, you split it in bands
as clear and as pure as the color of day,
you pick needles of truth
from philosophical hay.

You don’t need to turn water to wine
You don’t need to make silver from lead
You don’t need to be hung on a cross
You don’t need to bake rocks into bread
You’re my prophet
and I hang like an ape on your every syllable,
every sound from your lips is a wish conceivable
You’re my prophet
and your confident stride brings me constantly nearer
to a version of life that’s conspicuously clearer
You’re my prophet
and you vanquish my doubts with an upturned chin
a pair of feline eyes and an impish grin
You’re my prophet
You’re my blinding light in a room that’s dim
You’re my love,
and love doesn’t make the world turn,
but it sure can affect the speed at which it spins.