With long grey beards the prophets stand
Assembled all around my room
Arrayed in robes bright crystalline
Of citrine, garnet, peridot
The morning light shines thick through air,
Upon each leath'ry wrinkled cheek,
And falls upon their glinting robes,
Which drench the room with fractured light.
The prophets stare my way and gaze
Like dancing sunlight, scorching hot;
They perforate my sleepy skin,
Now ready, waiting, seeking ought.
The prophets speak in unknown tongues,
The fragments of their heav'nly words
Fly fluid into two strong notes –
A strident pounding ratio.
Far past the tenor of their gaze
The perfect fifth seeps through my skin,
It soaks my mouth with holy oil,
And pulls my organs deep within.