Prophet -

Look, I have hands

But the people said, «What are hands?»

Why am I helping these people?

I’m dooming myself with them

My own hands are numb

Abandoned by sensation

Betrayed on our planet

Now we’re dislocated

Strike the soft part, of the abdomen

Look just below, the bottom of the sternum

Aim up over liver, and through the diaphragm

Terminate a heart’s, pounding rhythm

A prophet for a fugitive

An aristocrat of misfortune

Queen of the damned

The ground beneath my feet

Feels darker and deeper

The cold, dry light of the sky

An odd frequency

Watching from the shadows

Of a beckoning open fire

This place of exile

Is offering up power

Strike the soft part, of the abdomen

Look just below, the bottom of the sternum

Aim up over liver, and through the diaphragm

Terminate a heart’s, pounding rhythm

A prophet for a fugitive

An aristocrat of misfortune

Queen of the damned

Cast down the rocks

No time for sharpening sticks

Open up your gates

To this sphere of experience

There may be a way out

Of this dead-end existence

Imagine your command

The thought-form will cover the distance

Strike the soft part, of the abdomen

Look just below, the bottom of the sternum

Aim up over liver, and through the diaphragm

Terminate a heart’s, pounding rhythm

A prophet for a fugitive

An aristocrat of misfortune

Queen of the damned