by Tom Bajoras
I awoke this morning
with prophecies tattooed on my hands.
Crows were chanting my new name.
When I stood up, an earthquake spread from my feet out to the horizon.
Pilgrims, you who have come this far—
pull your chair closer, pour a drink,
stay a while.
Hear a story about time,
times, and half a time,
about a dragon from the sea,
with its flaming breath
reducing cities to debris.
The signs and wonders in the sky
are easily explained as CGI.
You can pay for a dance,
a dance as sweet as jasmine in June,
But the words on my hands
are glowing in the light of the blood red moon.