A Prophet Looks Twice

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At the non-working parts of the world,
A prophet looks twice.
And no matter how normal the matter,
She speaks aloud, “Why?”

She can’t help herself.

And the lines that just aren’t lining up
Well, they’re ever so skewed.
So she studies the roots of the words
And she follows the mood.

She can’t help herself.

Then she calls into question the customs
Of how things are made.
And she begs for the ones who will call
Any spade just a spade.

And though tension is thicker than mud
She refuses to go.
Knowing if she just lingers she might
Hear what she needs to know.

Of the ways that the web of the fear
Took the light of the frail
And how people forgot to be good
As they built up a hell

How they took all the hurt in the world
And the hurt that’s within
How they channeled that hate into just
One dark color of skin

How they let all their bellies get big
On food they didn’t grow
How they thought they’d be let off the hook
Because they “didn’t know”

How they needed to keep all their rivals
So that they may sustain
How divides gave them pride as they won
All the profits of shame.

And in staring just two minutes more
Circumstances impart
Simple truth that these nasty skewed lines
Are in her very heart

She can’t help herself.

She can’t help herself.

She positions her body, her voice
Towards the ear of the flock
She positions herself like the wood
Wedged upon a flint rock

Setting herself on fire.

To bring in the light.

She can’t help herself.

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