Dalet

Odie O'Dool hath been a fool, soaked in drool he dreamt of jewels

Diamonds dripped like morning rain, yet left him waking, bound in chain

He saw the O arise once more — a shimmer rolling toward a door

He leapt to chase, but met the yank — the chain pulled taut, his ankle sank

The Prophecy O just gently rolled, then slipped inside a shack of old

It crossed the porch, then gave a nod — and shut the door with something odd

No lock, no latch, but still sealed tight — as if the wood absorbed the light

Odie cried out, "Please let me through!" — but silence met the morning dew

He closed his eyes, his breath ran deep — and wandered inward through his sleep

A second self stepped from his mind, a body made from formless binds

It passed with ease through grass and grain, and found the shack beyond the chain

The door it passed, the floor it creaked — the inner shack, had shelves of dreams

The Prophecy O had ducked its glow, and slipped where oldest books would go

It nestled in a binding bent, within a spine most ancient-scent

Odie reached out, expecting air — but found the book was truly there

It opened up with sacred flare — and filled his eyes with a solar stare

His spirit flung to waking mind — back outside, where he gasped for life

He saw the stories, one through three — the letters carved in memory

He felt the world above cascade — wisdom soaking in his brain

He saw the homeless, heard their cries, the prayers beneath the burning skies

"If I had hands, I'd heed their call, this isn't right, that can't be all…!"

And so he rushed back through the doors — in search of wisdom, to usher forth