The Waystation

She sat on the yellow line, the red line, the blue line. Echoes in her eyes, they rang white and screaming, a thorny humid trap of a mind. Limb in limbo all askew, thoughts in a loop of prayers, which like magic, are supposed to grant some wish. They flood up into the “heavens,” maybe just in that direction, poor lost spirits never knowing their destination.

Prophesy, those wrinkled man prunes in twisted hats, hands always moving, erratically speaking speech of someone else’s tongue or no one’s tongue, they issue forth and summon knowledge. The deep foreign or insane world of demons or dreams with transmissions from souls trapped in perfection. The echoes of Gods in the dark, starry river, is Prophesy reminding. To wield the vibrations one can barely hear, like a double-edged sword they are? Maybe daggers to oneself and another. Prophesy prophesyprophesyprophesy are those magic beads tingling as you read from ancient texts, trying to uncover the symbols (sigh) words, pictures… visions in your sight.