Prophecy

The rain drip, drops, on my bedroom window.
Where I see myself, hanging
With a fallen stool under my feet. I stare
At my dead reflection that gently swings,
Like wind chimes in the morning.
The reflection
Of my future. Or was it my past,
Who knows?

As the dark blue of the night
Caresses the fields of lettres, the fields
Of reflections. That are set to flames
By the pyromaniac that nestles between the
Cold, harsh lines of this verse.

Colder,
Than the Siberian winter. That even the Tsar's bottle
Couldn't repent. You know,
That one bottle that fell over. Only to form the sea
Under cruel repression of the moon.

We stand while the tide
Gently brushes our ankles. And disappears,
As the moon grabs its tears
From the earth. Only to let them fall down
Another night. So the rain can drip drop
Down my bedroom window. So my future
Or past reflection can return in my eyes.
Perhaps, just maybe, it is all
A self-fulfilling prophecy.