Calm Before the Storm

There is vision and there is visionary.

I look—I look hard.

Immaculate skies waft toward me at 475 nm.

A blanket of clear blue is beautifully clear, but cruelly dishonest.

Still and quiet, the silence hides the turbidity of a roar behind it.

What will follow, I foresee, is black and intangible,

But it will be delivered as flak.

Thus, it means to kill me.

The missiles are aimed at me by persons I do not know.

And they don’t know me.

Oh, but our nations know each other very well.

Clear skies are quiet and warm and calm.

But death is noisy and black and, having no wavelength,

Absorbs all living wavelengths.

The birth of Man was white—all colors, all possibilities, all at once, all the time.

Prismatic unfolding was our history.

But black is our death.

That’s the way I see it.

A visionary vise

Holds me fast as all fades to black...