A prophet on his off-day
Has few friends:
Visions tumble,
Believers run,
Even the wind deserts him.
That Ark you built
Rots in the backyard
Unnoticed,
As the earth burns.
Your miracles have come adrift;
Your prayers returned
Unopened.
Now, on the highest mountain,
You try to make amends:
Opening your arms to the
Clouds
In search of rain.
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