Predictions
Blue
fears and loves.
Four ice-crystals stick to my tongue,
suddenly I can see the future.
Longingly forlorn and apathetic
predictions weigh like spider silk
on moth’s wings–cover the planet
spool upon spool.
It was the beginning, a new age, a light age
an age of angles studied through
fresh eyes, enormous amazing eyes!
It was largely full of love and tangible
sweet
places of the global heart.
Predictions shimmer–snow over glass in the sun.
We choke trying to find balance and purity in the air we breathe,
choking is not the end.
Palm, face up,
the spider silk weighs a moth’s wings down and fingers tangle.
But silence will not last long.