Prophecy presses against the surface;
those dramatic eyes, traumatic excellence,
deliberate surfing.
By error to win, some version of tales, silent wailing,
to conjure up images, to draw emotion,
to read an angered sketching; violent colors, rage subdued,
wrath seeping out—never to assert it, where we see it, alike in tenderness.
To hurt in motion, to smile with caution, to become for a few, every opalescent sound.
In having scales, in knowing comforts,
silence is easy to discern.
Much is taken for weakness, strength of a locomotive—
upon investigation, to have a
gift, to
assist, such penchants, deeper
pertinence, Mother of prophecy.
