by Scott Utley
My prophet rises from snow white sands.
Heís cut and bruised with bloody hands.
His metamorphosis is marked by purple flowering
feathered wings, immaculately conceived.
He reaches into the eye of the sky,
and fondles memories from before my time.
Back when this river flowed with twice the heart,
and the sky more volatile with twice the strike.
When this desert land was twice as young,
He walked along these very skies
now dusked across my mind,
like a churning, holy, electrical explosion.
My prophet rises from the deep blue sea,
with gaping wounds for all to see.
His metamorphosis is marked by the inhalation
of deep and conscious breath, like yellow diamonds
upon his chest; strung side by side with cosmic thread.
He is future, present and the past. He is courage fed
by Fathers brave and Mothers strong.
They have taught him well, both right and wrong.
The world unceasingly expands it's view
with open eyes and a childís pride.
He is my harness, I love this ride.
My Prophet rises, I am He.
I have wept in pain but now Iím free.
Upon this sand my heart is burned.
There is so much I have to learn.
My metamorphosis is marked by the ringing,
high-pitched bells in the cathedral of my mind.
I know I am more than looks perceive,
the well is full, I have no greed,
that Christ is here and that he bleeds.
He is my lover, I am He.
Copyrigth: Scott Utley
May 25, 2006
Topanga Canyon, Ca.
The End Times