the prophet gets the last word
the cynic:
ten thousand raging bulls reside in this coffin chest
inside there is a dying death to hope for better days
and from my megaphone comes a sweet shamed chorus
a heavy grain of triumphant accusation says, “you can’t do this.”
so i’m sitting at the table, creating behind the sewing machine of disaster
and i see the world all wrong;
all black, all white, all beyond the repairer’s repair
and so, that’s how i see my church, my city, my unfinished dreams—
all beyond the repairer’s repair.
the prophet:
i want to see life through the trees of tomorrow
not through the windows of what once was,
that fog and cloud and barely tell the better story
i want to see it as it is, even if we aren’t making much movement.
don’t give me the inventions of the heart, the sadness of impossibility
don’t deny the texture, the chaos, all the beaming beauty
this is what i want:
a world unbroken where the margin of hurt starts to shrink small
and so i’m flying to an island i’ve never been to—
there’s going to be a funeral for all my blind, selfish living
my ego is going to trip so i can make a life that matters
i’ll get at a better way of living, even if at a sloth’s pace
