They said that you’re the one
but we don’t give much credence
To the voices behind the ice
Or the poison that drowns them
anymore so I don’t tell you.
They were prophets
And made a megalomaniac
Of me and now we know the crystal
They throw is not a ball, has no shape
for soothing at all.
Just a plastic vessel for their disease
The idea, the shape of emptiness
Waiting to be filled.
But still, with it I tell the future
To you now, each night.
Inherited the practice, I did
To look into the glass
Predict your sorrow
And mine
For silver
Linings
outside
this cabin
Of gypsies, beggars
And thieves.
