January girdled destiny
as a humbling must.
The left was never right
after wandering Jordan desert 
with untuned organs failing
during a farewell concert. 
He reassured.
I followed.

You’ve been here.
You’ve been here.
You’ve been here before. 

The third and final 
Cave Prophecy
entered orifices  
manifesting stigma
and loneliness, 
challenging faith
and purpose
only consoled by
The three Magi.

Illness became unwarranted
metaphors in recurring visions
and roaring conversations with Him,
initially visible
in The Cave as the only
ancestor speaking my tongue.
He returned for three years
to remind.

You will think you will die. 
You will hope you will die.
You will be okay.

I hibernated for one year,
supervised by Him;
confused by Him.
And healed. 

Nostradamus was real.
And his Father, too. 
They never lied to me.