Prophets

Fences and ropes do not define museums, the shackles of time remain bolted down,
With the irons on their tugging wrists, prisoners faces are exploding in tears,
Accused by a wavering drunken boy, intent on defining the thoughts of our time,
He prophesized weakness of man to ensnare, and ordered all restraint be restricted

It puzzled me when I noticed his landlord, bended and smiling to steal from ashtrays,
Twitching by sucking the cigarette's last life, leading his burned down body to death,
I watched as he died in the alley a bum, begging for the last of cigarette's ashes,
To taste the tar that he drowned in before, made his last breathes all the sweeter

The stagecoach comes and knowledge leaves, departing like the fuse of the bomb,
The prophet steals the wealth from the poor, inherited from the rich man's laws,
They are the bandits in gold tinted spurs, used to command blinded horses,
The stallions ain't going to budge no more, for they can target the outlaw's aiming

The tight wire lays close to the flames, the poet and painter lean to that side,
Prophet more like suth-sayers become, the devil within them concealed to praise,
But I see through their Godly masks, the blood of extinction on hide killers,
Dashing into the construction yard, of a hospital ward meant for the dying