I am no prophet

I am no prophet.
My eyes still glazed over from horrors,
Blocking them in a wayward glance
Ears deaf to the shrieks of explorers.
Their wretched poison intoxicating.
Am I drunk?
High with narcissistic thoughts,
My mind and body have sunk.
I am no prophet.
My mind still clear,
No lofty aspirations spilling from my lips
As still, I hide from the frontier.
My morality still a fledgling,
Naive in its youth
I blindly search for an eluding truth.
I am no prophet.
Do Hell’s fires burn?
If Hade’s hands clasp mine will it scold or scorn?
Or will the proud badge of humanity shield me?
But say I just stand there,
Frozen in that fraction of time.
If I did would it engulf everything?
Like some twisted black hole lassoed from space?
Must I keep pace?
Is there safety in a movement?
This ever changing scenery seems so intoxicating,
Neon signs with blurred words,
Posters of indecency plastered on every surface
To tantalize the herds.
I am no prophet.
But if I was,
I’d say this world is going to turn to dust.
What if standing still really is the answer,
Should I stop,
Bury my feet sternly and disregard the pulsing streets.
Will I be safe then?

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