MAD PROPHET CHRONICLES 1: I HEAR THEM ALL

There are voices in my head,
from within and without;
soft, sweet and reasonable,
leading me on and on
until I stumble and fall
and like a toad, I hop
from inhale to exhale,
seeking peace, seeking bliss
and seeking for some sense of home.

Off the cuff, the voices congregate
like supplicants before a throne.
They flicker like flames in my brain
telling stories of blood and fire,
of black skins bloated with sin
as incantations spill
through broken lips to touch me;
stoned, stained, bitter with pain,
floating like a spore, a speck of dust,
a mote of sunlight, a single seed
riding the wings of the heated breeze,
seeking peace, seeking bliss
and seeking for some sense of home.

Help will come to heal the broken.
Wounds of the spirit will bleed
clean and scab until nothing
will associate the voiceless
prodigal strutting through the
evening haze with this pipsqueak
splattered on the sidewalk,
watching the sun set
on this heap of debris that stink
in offering to the gods above
seeking peace, seeking bliss
and seeking for some sense of home.

Oh! The chains we craft;
Clanking and clinking like coins
spilling from wallets paid with scant tears
and blood and sweat and regrets.
I see them from my place
of humble, mad repose; these maidens.
I hear their screams in my head.
Their coffers are filled with blood
and semen, aborted fetuses
and stunted babies drugged to sleep.
They say the price is steep
but they pay and pay again
until they ferment to dust,
their voices praying and
seeking for peace, seeking for bliss
and seeking for some sense of home.

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_pixabay:8385

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This poem was first written for an instagram contest. I didn't win anyways. I just saw it today and thought it best to share it here as well. If it gets you thinking, do not hesitate to share in the comments section. Much appreciated.

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©warpedpoetic, 2019.