The prophet is handing out poems to the dead
hoping to inspire the next great resurrection.
The dead are showing no interest and the poems
lie scattered in the graveyard like torn leaves.
He’s always been known for putting band aids
on broken arms and making lemonade from limes.
The Bible he reads from is full of blank pages and
he’s changed the names to protect the innocent.
As a last resort he built an altar to the art of sorrow
from the stones of his silent heart. Only crows attend
services anymore, putting his words in their beaks
and feeding them to their young.
The paradox of prayer is that it flies on only one wing.