Windwhipped prophecy shutters through unseasonably chill air,
Careening like a swollen knuckle punchline;
I can taste the words on bleeding tonguetip,
But it remains catcaught by the very thought.
This isn’t the first time that I’ve learned to speak,
Or even the second or third,
But when the ashes between my teeth come unfettered this time,
They will tell of something of enormous Grace.
The life of the world to come,
Quieted before countless swords,
And two shaky flaming hands beneath.
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“I can taste the words on bleeding tonguetip,
But it remains catcaught by the very thought.” The sound play grabs me.