(You speak of the sea in colors and ash,
but I never felt condemned)
deserts crack your lips,
spilling sand past snake-bite hands
while you preach of how god brings rain.
I have to wonder when the last time
was that you had a solid drink of air.
Or perhaps you are too full:
hot air balloons to journey up to where
you spill horizon eyes to be.
I hope He places a kiss upon your brow,
though he would never so much as
look that way at my apologies, were they in hand.
All around her were drinking in the words of the prophet, absorbing his message, but Susan looked into his eyes and saw a flicker of doubt.
tonykeyesjapan
who is the prophet? Where is he or her and when will they arrive? What makes a prophet, can they actually predict the future? Maybe no different than the rest of us, just see’s the world more clearly.
James Foster
He lurks in the corner with a cup that’s been refilled several times. His rancid breath has left a permanent stain on the rim of the glass. I’ve seen him in this place almost every time since I’ve started coming. He watches silently, nodding to himself, aware of something beyond my scope of experience…
He ate honey and locusts, with blonde hair and red eyes, screaming! Jesus Jesus is coming! Running though the woods of southern Georgia. But I loved him. I loved that lunatic prophet. He played the horn.
His shoulders were stooped with age and his face bore the weathered traces of the paths that life had worn through him. What set him apart from the rest of the monks at Isha’s temple was an entirely different thing.
It was his staff. Long and thin, as if it were no more than the single trunk of a young sapling, inlaid with gold and precious jewels, capped at the bottom with a dull silver. The top was pronged, almost as if it were a trident and his eyes–oh his eyes.
His eyes were the deepest, darkest shade of purple on this side of Honeywell Duvash.
The Prophet, they called him and yes, he answered.
it’s bewildering to me
how fast you can fall
when the ground is removed
and how there never seems to be an end
and how you’re trapped
and how you believe in a prophet
spitting sanguine strength
sparkle spin and shake
maybe he’s here maybe he ain’t
but if you squint hard enough
the fall’ll be cushioned
matt m
A prophet. It’s certainly an interesting word, and it implies that that person is able to look into the future to guide others. Perhaps not necessarily guide, but the word does hugely imply the wisdom that comes along with becoming a prophet.
Funnily enough, prophets are now looked down upon by others in the society, perhaps because there are now frauds among us. But there will always be the true prophet to stand alongside us in the end.
today in c7 church the pastor was on a roll prophesying over specific people in the audience it was boring but actually pretty awesome thinking about it and the things he said could apply and be relevant to everyone
estelle
the prophet was a man who no one really knew anything about. they just admired him in some way that no one could explain, he had some magic inside him. No one could scape his power, and yet no one knew they should do something about it. The prophet one day came up with his last spell: Make everyone think that they had an option.
Luiza
prophet. they whispered. quiet. as though words could have powers they did not know of (but isn’t there power enough in what they wield). there were stories, you know? of a child born at midnight. among shooting stars and falling constellations. they said there’d be angels. but it was only so quiet. as it always is. and it wasn’t at midnight at all. it was during the day. there were no shooting stars or constellations but it rained. and maybe that was enough. no angels but a girl too young holding herself together. quiet so quiet. and perhaps, that was enough.
As he walked along the deserted road, clouds of dust billowing from his footsteps, there came a loud clanging sound. It was eerie and beautiful at the same time.
RannJ
I just did this and now I have to do it again. But I dont really know too much about prophets, except that they are mentioned quite frequently in the bible. I think their main purpose is to walk to walk the earth and challenge the inhabitants and their faith. Is it a test of blind faith or their strength as a person, maybe both?
Levi
Everyone was still. His words minced the air with thickness and we all listened intently. I don’t know how, but this man stopped everyone in the streets. He boasted from the corner of an intersection and this was the curbside prophet everyone was looking for.
The prophet reared his head and shouted “Behold! For the new messiah is here. Also I wear a goat head mask for some reason. But fear not because goats are alright!”
Upon hearing this, the villagers immediately tar and feathered him, because blasphemy and stuff. And then whaddaya know, the world ended.
Thomas S. Monson is a true Prophet in our day and age. He is the Prophet of the LDS church, which stands for: “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints”. I, Leah so testify of this. :)
The days of the prophets are gone, at least that was what the people had been saying for many years until Atkeela came.
There had never been one like him before and based on the way things were going one had to assume that there would be never again one like him. He had called the fires from the skies like the mighty prophets before him but he had also done much more than that.
Jean
I am the profet of death.
I was sent to this hell of place as a punishment to see the real value of death itself, and as concecuence I have to promote it now to the people in the world
Be careful, death is right by your side, it is looking at you
No
“A reading from the Prophet Marcus,” he began, and already Alison was shaking her head.
“Nope. I’m out. Thanks, bye.” She downed her gin and tonic and began to walk out of the room.
“Oh, c’mon, don’t be blasphemous!” Marcus chuckled from his makeshift podium made out of a stack of college biology textbooks. “Everyone is here for the sermon.”
“I’m here for the beer,” Shawn corrected him, but Marcus waved at him dismissively.
Belinda Roddie
“A Prophet!” He spat, the disgust evident on his face. “Is that what you are calling yourself now? What you think you are? No one believes you. You’re giving yourself a fake sense of self-importance, when really you are nothing. You always have been, and you always will be. Go.” He commanded, turning his back on the young man at his feet.
“Just, go.”
Evie Stone
A prophet is without honor in his own town. That’s the way he felt when he set foot in the commander’s office. Something had changed. Something had shifted. He stood without a word, waiting for the commander to speak. The man said nothing. Just stared across the room at him.
709
The prophet was never believed. He lied so often that it was kind if hard to believe that he ate a waffle this morning. But this time, it was true. Or so he believed. Was he going insane? Was he out of his mind? He would never be sure, because no one was willing to see if he was. Maybe he was wrong…
He stood before the crowd knowing that they thought him a Prophet. His Master would reward him well for paving the way. Soon darkness would rule the world and his Master would walk the earth.
Helen
The Bible, Holy men, people who say they can see the future.
Belinda Bates
The Prophet, was my favorite book as a young woman. And remains on my book shelf to this day, also has been bought many times for dear friends. A beautiful read.
“Holy crap, are you psychic or something?!” Colette exclaimed quite loudly in my ear as she slapped my shoulder. I grimaced and then glared at her. “What are you talking about?”
The way her eyes lit up made me nervous; although I adored my best friend, she was almost always up to something. “Marina and Alan broke up! And you were the only one in the whole school that predicted it!” She seized me by the shoulders and started jumping up and down. “You’re a fortune teller! Or no, even better, a prophet! Can you tell me my future now, Kat?”
“Colette, chill.” I shoved her away and slung my backpack over my shoulder. “I’m not psychic, I just knew they’d never last for more than a few months.”
AJ Kenobi
There he was, the fallen angel. He sits in the courtroom, palms sweaty and mind stirring. He sees his false prophet hovering somewhere in the space between his consciousness and a pseudo-reality, wings a glistening shade of white. The blood that stained that eggshell complexion told no lies; he was truly alone in a Godless world.
a preacher from the old testiment. Someone who proclaims the truth or prophecies something that will happen or could happen in the future. A wise man, a respected man, humble. Caring. Compassionate. Someone who serves other people and God before himself.
Lisa Canfield
the prophet told of this great man coming in and saving the world from certain doom. I didn’t know it was going to be me. I’m nothing, got nothing and yet I’m the prophet. it’s weird.
Danny
“I am the prophet!” the woman vociferated as she besottingly touched the man’s face. “I know the path you must walk, and it is the path that I am leading. Stand beside me and I will take you on an adventure you so deserve.”
The man looked into her eyes lovingly with a smirk. “And yet you were trying to convince me you weren’t that drunk. Grrrrrrl, you cray.”
ArtfulAtaraxia
He had a low, slightly raspy voice–the kind of voice best fitting some kind of prophet of old. Instead, on him, it just felt out of place, particularly when he tried to croon into the microphone.
Mask man how do you keep the sun off your eyes? The holes in your mask are large and cracking open wider. I’ve never seen your pupils so far, not any day we’ve come here have I seen the whites of your eyes.
People cling to the hems of his robes in the dusty marketplace. They are fervent, hoping. Hoping for this man – who is more-than-man – to bring miracles into their lives. Women and men alike sing “Alleluia” into the night.
ajkgkjs
writing like prophets
soapbox standing in my mind
who am I kidding?
The prophet teaches and guides. What happened to our prophet? He didn’t come back! Someone said from the group.Nobody knows where he is or what happened to him.
Maybe it’s time we get somebody else.
But who?
My son John.
Are you sure?
Yes. But he is scared that he won’t come back as well.
She strode around with all the authority a false prophet could garner, a following of the damned yipping anxiously at her heels.
(You speak of the sea in colors and ash,
but I never felt condemned)
deserts crack your lips,
spilling sand past snake-bite hands
while you preach of how god brings rain.
I have to wonder when the last time
was that you had a solid drink of air.
Or perhaps you are too full:
hot air balloons to journey up to where
you spill horizon eyes to be.
I hope He places a kiss upon your brow,
though he would never so much as
look that way at my apologies, were they in hand.
All around her were drinking in the words of the prophet, absorbing his message, but Susan looked into his eyes and saw a flicker of doubt.
who is the prophet? Where is he or her and when will they arrive? What makes a prophet, can they actually predict the future? Maybe no different than the rest of us, just see’s the world more clearly.
He lurks in the corner with a cup that’s been refilled several times. His rancid breath has left a permanent stain on the rim of the glass. I’ve seen him in this place almost every time since I’ve started coming. He watches silently, nodding to himself, aware of something beyond my scope of experience…
He ate honey and locusts, with blonde hair and red eyes, screaming! Jesus Jesus is coming! Running though the woods of southern Georgia. But I loved him. I loved that lunatic prophet. He played the horn.
His shoulders were stooped with age and his face bore the weathered traces of the paths that life had worn through him. What set him apart from the rest of the monks at Isha’s temple was an entirely different thing.
It was his staff. Long and thin, as if it were no more than the single trunk of a young sapling, inlaid with gold and precious jewels, capped at the bottom with a dull silver. The top was pronged, almost as if it were a trident and his eyes–oh his eyes.
His eyes were the deepest, darkest shade of purple on this side of Honeywell Duvash.
The Prophet, they called him and yes, he answered.
it’s bewildering to me
how fast you can fall
when the ground is removed
and how there never seems to be an end
and how you’re trapped
and how you believe in a prophet
spitting sanguine strength
sparkle spin and shake
maybe he’s here maybe he ain’t
but if you squint hard enough
the fall’ll be cushioned
A prophet. It’s certainly an interesting word, and it implies that that person is able to look into the future to guide others. Perhaps not necessarily guide, but the word does hugely imply the wisdom that comes along with becoming a prophet.
Funnily enough, prophets are now looked down upon by others in the society, perhaps because there are now frauds among us. But there will always be the true prophet to stand alongside us in the end.
today in c7 church the pastor was on a roll prophesying over specific people in the audience it was boring but actually pretty awesome thinking about it and the things he said could apply and be relevant to everyone
the prophet was a man who no one really knew anything about. they just admired him in some way that no one could explain, he had some magic inside him. No one could scape his power, and yet no one knew they should do something about it. The prophet one day came up with his last spell: Make everyone think that they had an option.
prophet. they whispered. quiet. as though words could have powers they did not know of (but isn’t there power enough in what they wield). there were stories, you know? of a child born at midnight. among shooting stars and falling constellations. they said there’d be angels. but it was only so quiet. as it always is. and it wasn’t at midnight at all. it was during the day. there were no shooting stars or constellations but it rained. and maybe that was enough. no angels but a girl too young holding herself together. quiet so quiet. and perhaps, that was enough.
As he walked along the deserted road, clouds of dust billowing from his footsteps, there came a loud clanging sound. It was eerie and beautiful at the same time.
I just did this and now I have to do it again. But I dont really know too much about prophets, except that they are mentioned quite frequently in the bible. I think their main purpose is to walk to walk the earth and challenge the inhabitants and their faith. Is it a test of blind faith or their strength as a person, maybe both?
Everyone was still. His words minced the air with thickness and we all listened intently. I don’t know how, but this man stopped everyone in the streets. He boasted from the corner of an intersection and this was the curbside prophet everyone was looking for.
The prophet reared his head and shouted “Behold! For the new messiah is here. Also I wear a goat head mask for some reason. But fear not because goats are alright!”
Upon hearing this, the villagers immediately tar and feathered him, because blasphemy and stuff. And then whaddaya know, the world ended.
Thomas S. Monson is a true Prophet in our day and age. He is the Prophet of the LDS church, which stands for: “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints”. I, Leah so testify of this. :)
He sat and listened. He was enamored with the one the called Prophet. Prophet told what the future of mankind held and it did not look good.
The days of the prophets are gone, at least that was what the people had been saying for many years until Atkeela came.
There had never been one like him before and based on the way things were going one had to assume that there would be never again one like him. He had called the fires from the skies like the mighty prophets before him but he had also done much more than that.
I am the profet of death.
I was sent to this hell of place as a punishment to see the real value of death itself, and as concecuence I have to promote it now to the people in the world
Be careful, death is right by your side, it is looking at you
“A reading from the Prophet Marcus,” he began, and already Alison was shaking her head.
“Nope. I’m out. Thanks, bye.” She downed her gin and tonic and began to walk out of the room.
“Oh, c’mon, don’t be blasphemous!” Marcus chuckled from his makeshift podium made out of a stack of college biology textbooks. “Everyone is here for the sermon.”
“I’m here for the beer,” Shawn corrected him, but Marcus waved at him dismissively.
“A Prophet!” He spat, the disgust evident on his face. “Is that what you are calling yourself now? What you think you are? No one believes you. You’re giving yourself a fake sense of self-importance, when really you are nothing. You always have been, and you always will be. Go.” He commanded, turning his back on the young man at his feet.
“Just, go.”
A prophet is without honor in his own town. That’s the way he felt when he set foot in the commander’s office. Something had changed. Something had shifted. He stood without a word, waiting for the commander to speak. The man said nothing. Just stared across the room at him.
The prophet was never believed. He lied so often that it was kind if hard to believe that he ate a waffle this morning. But this time, it was true. Or so he believed. Was he going insane? Was he out of his mind? He would never be sure, because no one was willing to see if he was. Maybe he was wrong…
He stood before the crowd knowing that they thought him a Prophet. His Master would reward him well for paving the way. Soon darkness would rule the world and his Master would walk the earth.
The Bible, Holy men, people who say they can see the future.
The Prophet, was my favorite book as a young woman. And remains on my book shelf to this day, also has been bought many times for dear friends. A beautiful read.
Prophet.
Prophet?
Prophet??
The Bible.
Prophecy.
Gifts.
“Holy crap, are you psychic or something?!” Colette exclaimed quite loudly in my ear as she slapped my shoulder. I grimaced and then glared at her. “What are you talking about?”
The way her eyes lit up made me nervous; although I adored my best friend, she was almost always up to something. “Marina and Alan broke up! And you were the only one in the whole school that predicted it!” She seized me by the shoulders and started jumping up and down. “You’re a fortune teller! Or no, even better, a prophet! Can you tell me my future now, Kat?”
“Colette, chill.” I shoved her away and slung my backpack over my shoulder. “I’m not psychic, I just knew they’d never last for more than a few months.”
There he was, the fallen angel. He sits in the courtroom, palms sweaty and mind stirring. He sees his false prophet hovering somewhere in the space between his consciousness and a pseudo-reality, wings a glistening shade of white. The blood that stained that eggshell complexion told no lies; he was truly alone in a Godless world.
a preacher from the old testiment. Someone who proclaims the truth or prophecies something that will happen or could happen in the future. A wise man, a respected man, humble. Caring. Compassionate. Someone who serves other people and God before himself.
the prophet told of this great man coming in and saving the world from certain doom. I didn’t know it was going to be me. I’m nothing, got nothing and yet I’m the prophet. it’s weird.
“I am the prophet!” the woman vociferated as she besottingly touched the man’s face. “I know the path you must walk, and it is the path that I am leading. Stand beside me and I will take you on an adventure you so deserve.”
The man looked into her eyes lovingly with a smirk. “And yet you were trying to convince me you weren’t that drunk. Grrrrrrl, you cray.”
He had a low, slightly raspy voice–the kind of voice best fitting some kind of prophet of old. Instead, on him, it just felt out of place, particularly when he tried to croon into the microphone.
Mask man how do you keep the sun off your eyes? The holes in your mask are large and cracking open wider. I’ve never seen your pupils so far, not any day we’ve come here have I seen the whites of your eyes.
He was as wild as the prevailing wind, matted hair flung back, uttering oaths, flailing his limbs about – a sight not to be forgotten.
People cling to the hems of his robes in the dusty marketplace. They are fervent, hoping. Hoping for this man – who is more-than-man – to bring miracles into their lives. Women and men alike sing “Alleluia” into the night.
writing like prophets
soapbox standing in my mind
who am I kidding?
What does it mean to be a prophet? Wise words? Truth? Or something inside us that will come to pass unseen?
The prophet teaches and guides. What happened to our prophet? He didn’t come back! Someone said from the group.Nobody knows where he is or what happened to him.
Maybe it’s time we get somebody else.
But who?
My son John.
Are you sure?
Yes. But he is scared that he won’t come back as well.