Did you expect the scrolls of some dead sea
deciphered? annotated with that destiny
you guessed into yourself?
Did you expect an arrow, thin as a vein,
revealing to your blood in which
direction it should run
Or perhaps a small god
adorning you with the wisdom
of a dying whisper
as you crush it to your skull
When your prophesy smears and dries,
which blanket will you pull
from the Rorschach of its scabs
When the tumbling of the straw man
blessing your table
steals your only scream,
will you have enough voice left
for any decent hand
to feel for your shape
in the dark you mistook for dusk
There’s no moon
in the grave you call temple
Do not believe the tide.
Beware of waves with teeth.