how many prophets came before? I read their names and parables scrawled down every wall. the courtyard harbours secret histories. fleeting technicolour chalk on red bricks ready to run with the rain when it comes. the momentary testament contains multitudes:
questions without answers
haikus from beyond the realm of consciousness
impossible numbers
demons screaming for release
flowers and handprints and curses
crucifix mutations
lists of names and medications
butterflies and bastards
Mr Gurns in striped pyjamas
impossible numbers
creeds and haunted omens
once legible dreams
and warnings of the end of days to come. a secret vault unprotected from the elements, exposed only for the oracles in residence on ward. the courtyard becomes some kind of church, our sacred escape from clinical lights and surveillance. I seek refuge from what sense I can draw from the writing on the walls, wishing my heart was open, my mind not bound by parasites and the confines of convention, that I might slip into the prophecy myself. kneeling on the astroturf I touch the walls with both hands. what happened to this mind that once believed? how might it learn to dream again? I bid the prophets reach me through my fingers. please tell me what to do.
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