The Last Days Without a Prophet

AI Create

The sky was silent, void of light,  

A hollow moon, a starless night.  

The winds once whispered dreams untold,  

Now carried echoes, dead and cold.  

The time had come, the days foretold,  

When fire would rain and blood run cold.  

Yet no son spoke, no daughter cried,  

No vision burned, no voice replied.  

Once promised rivers, Spirit’s flood,  

Had dried to dust, had turned to mud.  

Not one was found with hands unstained,  

No lips unsoiled, no hearts unchained.  

They feasted well on fleeting need,  

Drank deep the wine of self and greed.  

They sold their birthright for a thrill,  

And swallowed darkness, void of will.  

The elders sat, their dreams now numb,  

The young men blind, their visions dumb.  

The servants toiled with empty hands,  

For no anointing touched the lands.  

A silence fell—no tongues, no fire,  

No voice of God, no prophet’s choir.  

The Spirit searched but found no place,  

No holy heart, no sacred space. 

 

And so the earth in mourning sighed,  

As heaven turned and angels cried.  

For in the last days, none were true,  

The promise stood—but none it knew.