On one level she always knows
that she is running out of it,
but on another she is taking it
and seeing what she wants to see
and isn’t bothered by the stories
she is forced through in the museum
of her life she lives inside of.
Forty five dollars a pill almost
impossible to work for in the heat
of the exhaustion, missing out on it.
The world’s next prophet will be a twelve
year old boy who God tells to sacrifice
his comic books to save
the mortal world from its implosion.
He will take action to carry out the task,
and just before he sets the pile all in flame
he’ll hear his name called by his mother
running madly over the flowers
growing purple on the back lot plot of grass.
She will stumble in her tall shoes only
asking about bottle caps and where
the tablets spilled when he got into them
that morning while she slept.
When he can’t remember over the headache
pouring out of his ears and the angels
disappearing in and out at every flicker
of his mother moving between him
and the sun. She would walk home
that night of course now as the only one
who heard the kingdom speaking
over all there was before her and behind her
in the burning of the books.

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