Prophecy is for the bearer of strength.
Amongst the angst found in the heart
of troubadour soldiers, of the
greatest misfortune. Comes a resurrection
full of compassion, skillfully
over shadowed, and discreetly cast to
the streets, for the impoverished belief
of those who have so little.

They’re resigned by dignity to abstain
from the acts of partaking in heresy.
Finding new formulas for new problems,
seem to solve very few of the questions
posed by open, bleeding lesions,
which gush profusely, as if to
suggest they were arrogantly self
imposed, and another theory in truth
unfolds.

Eyes locked insidiously upon the
unwinding future, foretold by
destiny, as each tiny memory cries
out in agony.
This disease has no remission,
knows no remedy, so anecdotes are
created, not antidotes, merely placebos,
but as the carrier of remission goes,
he finds his calamity calmed.
He believes in the cure,
procured in their laboratories.

Hanging from the moon are the
greatest of his dreams, escaping
as they’ve entered.
By understanding his capacity to
nurture, he’s tortured for the nature
of their hatred, and those who once
loved him, betray him as he stands
witness for them.

Prophecy is for the bearer of strength.
Orating away what was once termed
fate, the innate misunderstanding of
many a fabled scholar.

Collared by ambiguity, they sit
idly upon a razor sharp blade of
misrepresentation, recreating evil,
by denouncing any bit of authority,
once garnished by integrity. The
sign of INRI fades, colored by ill will,
a rustic image of what he once was
before ideas were faded by the sun.

Burnt, branded, and stranded,
a lone castaway, a pariah left to suffer,
to mull over all that was once offered.
As the minions he was sent to free
from shackles of despair, spit upon
his face, replacing hope with the tyranny
of creating their own faith.

Another straightjacket of time tightens
like the ancient noose he was hung upon.
Pulled free from his anchors, he moves
fluidly throughout daydreams, where
martyrs reside to speak of the times
they controlled the conglomerate psyche.

Now immortalized in books, aged, and
forgotten. The spine of this compilation
no longer reads, “Tragic Love Story,”
it’s become a doctrine of foul play, and
closed caskets, but from the ashes he rises
up like a phoenix. To temper the world in
a new form of sanity, a new chance at
possibility, yet eyes remain closed, securely
fastened to the tortures of self doubt, and
insecurity.

Anchored by nails, while being pierced
by spears. Reality is too painstaking to
attempt and endure. They close their eyes
while he can dream no more.

Prophecy is for the bearer of strength.
Amongst the angst found in the heart
of troubadour soldiers, of the
greatest misfortune. Comes a resurrection
full of compassion, skillfully
over shadowed, and discreetly cast to
the streets, for the impoverished belief
of those who have so little.