the prophet.

I
(the unknown, the silence) -
if my skin tremors of god; athens, 

and my pores vapour out, into this sky of abstract faith;
(it resonates with shivers of pray), from the failed and forgotten, your cowardice;

- my forgiveness, for i speak the language of foreign that no man can concieve;

do you betray me? i've wandered in my state of agony ablissed; 
cursed with immortifying pain, this ignorance; of my candid nature,
and my eyes have turned blind from the frost of winter's hail; mr. prophet,

i'm a bearded fool, only to beg in alms and trodden feet - from the essence of my own suffering;

i drank the nectar of exodymus; that walnut hidden in wilderness,
i cry in what is only blood, and i eat plants that taste flesh; but,

my pain does not subside. in misery; perhaps, i beg 
for basil, and a pinch of flint;
i am accursed with my own weightage, and much too for my own sake; god,
the greek of athens -  
please, bear half the weight of what this mortal carries;

he looks a man, about as nineteen from the hindus in descent;
his tongue is slit from the holy kwatub; hence he speaks only
in impressions, in prophecies; this young man;