Prophecies come true

The words of prophets rarely ring true
When they are spoken
But when turkey stew and little heart necklaces
Are served on a bed of crystals
Though prophets think they know
To whom
(or about)
they prophesy
The pagan lovers are the beneficiaries
And the righteous never think their words of blessing
Are reserved for the similar in heart
(Though the ones in ripped jeans
And hoodies proclaiming their allegiances
Are the prophecy’s
Intended dwelling
Place)

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