The Future's Overrated

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like in a prophecy the day before
the future had been revealed on a Sunday evening.
where the church had been silent
the bells toll, ringing into my deafness
an explicit tongue borne without words.
my words spread like tapered fire
across the emaciated body of sacred literature.
i read it well with all those years of learning
doing me good like a young messenger's sermon.
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the parsonage had dealt with famine
there were no people, the hallways were dark.
the candlelight escaped the corners
where on its walls crawled the earthly creatures.
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one of them was me.
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i had banished myself from yearning
and my punishment? the future.
the future had been revealed to me
and i thought i could not deal well.
what had i to do with the knowledge
of the world's destruction? the many souls
that would heave in purgatory?
the prophecy of my own death?
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i kept what i knew, deep in my lungs
for speech would do no good.
everyone would be sensitive,
everyone would deny the consequence
of god's amusement with wrath:
the ignorance, the guilt, the pleasures.
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the future was overrated.
the past had existed, the present exists.
the future will forever be a concept.
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in silence, i awaited the second coming
my arms draped around the messenger's words.
but here i found myself to be in control.
i was not afraid of my own death
nor the death of the present.
i held the truth in my own hands
and silently repeated the last 7 words.
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