Misguided Prophets

by | Dec 10, 2019 | Issue Twelve, Poetry

The Sibyl Was Too Old To Go To A Beauty Counter 

There was a home for the prophets that couldn’t remember their names anymore. This could only push the mimics into cages to see if they could swirl the leaves with their tongues and make God-given mistakes. There is a fortune to be made in telling the news of the future and Sibyl, withered like a mummy in an exhibition, was rich enough to buy fur coats in summer (when there was a sale). She had been wanting to die in the sands of the hour-glass for decades. She couldn’t take the dust that oozed from her skin even though she tried to beat it out as if she was a Persian carpet. Immortality didn’t look very good on her. And so when a middle-aged woman who had faced the tragedy of forgetting to submit asked Sibyl if she was extraordinary, Sibyl replied asking what brand her age-defying face cream was and said she had to give it to her on loan. 

Madame Who Had Been Sneezing

Comedy takes us to a certain point and then tragedy comes to march us forward. Just like the execution of a woman with only three fingers. She could read a tarot card only from the fingerprint of her still existing thumb and somehow only managed to predict when you were going to die never how. People asked for their money back when she had a cold that blew over the entire city and blocked the young lovers. This was definitely a retribution for them having more time even though the young are too lost to feel the gift of the minutes hyperventilating. Let us catch our breath till the crow flies and the mob comes in protest at the death of their favorite prophet of misery. When they peeled off her boots they were amazed she had all her toes with nails painted bright pink. Ah, the mob said, a sign she will be resurrected. 

Read more Issue Twelve | Poetry

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