The Prophets

In between when I post new writings, I am going to start putting up some of my work from my pre-blogging years

Out of the deserts the prophets come,

With visions in their eyes;

And the townsfolk lift their bleary gaze

In manifest surprise.

Out of the deserts the prophets come,

Aflame with what they've seen;

Broken, rebuilt by the largeness of things,

Bigger than small men dream.

They have seen the heavens blaze with stars,

Have walked the night alone,

Acknowledged a sun too strong for them,

Reaped what the wind has sown;

Heard, in that dreadful loneliness,

The Voice which could not be;

Suffered the words that burn the soul,

And touched Reality.

Then, from the deserts, the prophets come,

Clothed in transcendent zeal;

And the townsfolk label it "lack of taste,"

"Such passion can't be real!"

Back to the deserts the prophets go,

To weep their bitterness.

While the townsfolk chatter through their days,

With nothing to express.

Back to the deserts the prophets go,

To be tempered like a blade;

To learn more wisdom from the One

Whom they had first obeyed.

Then from the desert they shall return,

On the wings of truth they ride;

And the flame of their passing scorches men,

And deceit is turned aside.

And where Plenty weaves her sorcery,

And the hearts of men grow dull;

Their words shall awaken the elsewise dead,

Sharp as a trumpet call;

And roses shall bloom in the wilderness,

A glorious song be heard;

When men shall awake from enchanted sleep,

And heed their BurningWord.