The Prophetic Doubt (poem)

“The prophesy

Knows your path.

To her

You will go,

But with a heart

Burdened by the past.”

So the prophet spoke,

Inciting the great spirits.

But belief

Was not my quality.

“Your pen is fine,

And your ink thick,

Upon my mind:

It stains my very thoughts.

But I, the spectator,

Will not give you parchment.

End this fiction here,

Your poorly developed plot.”

“You think I,

A medium of spirits,

Would dare

Create anything?

I am no artist,

Free to do

As I wish.

No, I am servant.

Their words

Know more than us.

Doubt them,

And know nothing.”

“Give me a moment,

To read this paper,

Like I would my own,

But give it belief.

It is a strange request,

To ask me to believe fiction,

Another man's words,

Over the fiction of my own.

My ink is red,

And marks the page brightly,

While yours is black,

Whispering the lies of fiction.

Why not read both,

And take both as true?”

“Child, I warn you,

You are blind

Like Agamemnon,

The once great victor.

Take a bath,

After treading like gods,

And stain the waters,

With your crimson ink.

Am I Trojan,

A priestess of Apollo,

Taken prisoner,

By those with no belief?”

“I am a man

Of twists and turns.

It is not hubris,

That leads me to doubt.

Against each other,

Men are pitted.

The gods toss us

Into the traps of mortals.

I doubt your words,

But cannot fight fate.

I do not believe,

But do yearn for her.

Prophet,

Take care,

I know not

What the future holds.”

“Simple death

Awaits us all.”

-Zero