Prophetic Loss

 

When the time came for something to be done

A dove was sent,

This was not a time for donkeys.

The prophets were beckoned to the town square,

And with that the dove took rest.

 

No problem too big, no fate too heavy

They would work together

Like they always had,

And they would come to answers,

Like the always had.

And so, they left

 

Crept from the tower on silent feet,

Left shadows in the woods on guard,

Sailed from the cove,

single fleet,

Packed myrrh in the crook of the cart.

 

Embers still from fires willed,

Put themselves to sleep.

Light fell fortune’s way lest time,

Be siphoned in the deep.

 

A gentle brow on Prophet One,

The skies of intellect,

Blue and calm, eternal balm,

Logic resurrect.

 

Leather footed, feathered, padding

Strong is Prophet next,

Beaded, painted, holy, sainted,

Gather now the rest.

In the circle centre stands the leader of the clan,

 A thousand beads strung onto reeds,

The years since time began.

 

A pool of blue black water in a cradle on a stand,

The Prophets wait to see the Fates etched out across the land.

 

One by one  they take their place,

They’ve already accepted,

The human race, future’s face,

It’s all to be expected.

 

There are no shrieks, no beating drums,

No fainting and no rising,

No striking swords or fervent words,

Debating or surmising.

 

For when they look into the pool,

Each soul is struck with yearning,

Their own reflection heralds now,

Narcissus returning.