The Last Prophet

Chewing on the tip
he was one with the smoke.
His poison from the vial
kissed his lips with every stroke.

In lucid thoughts he found, something extraordinaire;
he penned them down, each word with precious care.
Words, plain and simple, painted the canvas red;
like from his blood, couldn’t see the difference there.

Beyond the horizon
that eluded the naive sight.
The blind saw again
through his pen’s might.

He knew more than they, which ought be preposterous;
they said he tried to be God, now that was blasphemous.
Secluded from the world, a recluse deemed by the people;
they ravaged his gift, yet towards him, they were vicious.

He wrote the last words
his gift and he would cease
He saw the smoke consume him
as he sighed good bye with ease.