The Prophet

Pieces of me fall–

scattered like shards of mica

reflecting salty ocean, pine needles

the smell of green tea and tan skin.

They lie there on the ground waiting

to get stepped on, crunched, eaten up

by a monster called time,

and spit back out again.

At the whim of the rocks and stars

they are vulnerable

even to the gentle violence of padding feet

and are far too receptive

to resemble any shape of their own.

They have such little direction,

and a minute sense of agency.

Yet these pieces can’t help but reflect

the truth to everyone who picks them up.



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