SONG OF THE LONG-HAIRED PROPHET
They’ll never fathom me. Never.
Not the way I look. I sound. Or smell.
Not even the way I cough or sneeze.
Neither the way I tuck my hair
behind my exploited ears. Nor the way,
and the reason, my hair grows like
conflagrating billows of regrets
on my head. And why I let my head burn,
burn, and burn some more.
No one would bother. But neither I could
figure out my own. There’s no way a man
could personify himself enough.
Betokened the long years of waiting for my savior,
for the great love that will untangle my heart.
A long, unkempt hair--precious as a wife;
I will never let anyone slash off my life.
And the best thing I could do
was to light up a matchstick
and forever set ablaze this agony.
Not the way I look. I sound. Or smell.
Not even the way I cough or sneeze.
Neither the way I tuck my hair
behind my exploited ears. Nor the way,
and the reason, my hair grows like
conflagrating billows of regrets
on my head. And why I let my head burn,
burn, and burn some more.
No one would bother. But neither I could
figure out my own. There’s no way a man
could personify himself enough.
Betokened the long years of waiting for my savior,
for the great love that will untangle my heart.
A long, unkempt hair--precious as a wife;
I will never let anyone slash off my life.
And the best thing I could do
was to light up a matchstick
and forever set ablaze this agony.
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