Painted histories triumph over your stories. The words that fall out of
a crooked mouth
that usually seeps and teems with
others’ limbs
is now babbling through tongues.
Yet there is no interpreter
like God promised.

I pretended to speak in tongues.
Hoping and praying that God would say something through me.
He would choose me.

But the purple and cool blue flying and silkening
into the past
silence me.
Forces me to do more than speaking for God.

It enables me to think and do.

Lessons cloud with a cacophony of
your troubles and his troubles and her troubles.
But silence allows me to conjure solution.

And the solution will save you all.
And God will want me more than ever
to serve You, the people.

The silence will save us all.