Yesterday, I swallowed blazing coals with words written on them by granny’s ink of wisdom,
As we sat around the fire turning history and issues to ashes
And with my stomach full, to this day, every burp is a mystery.
Speaking in ‘the is’ and ‘the was,’ infringing on ingrained literature rules,
Mysteriously speaking mysteries,
Lost in His presence like a whisper in the night,
With shoes on, I came out with a royal priesthood.
A noble and enchanting king to inconvenience the devil so he will release the bound,
Deposing and debasing the enemy because he is docile.
What I’m actually saying is that,
I was made a king and a priest sitting around the fire with spoken word maestros
Because I swallowed the ashes.
The book of prophecy holds forever true.
So, I am a product of words written on flames.