Tarot · Track 60 · middle
Page of Swords
RWS: a young figure on a windy hilltop holding a sword up in both hands, clouds racing, birds scattered, the grass and trees all bent one way. Keywords: watchfulness, sharp curiosity, the one who asks, energy with no target picked yet.
No audio yet — generation pending.
Lyrics
The cypress trees are leaning out in uniform degrees. The clouds are moving faster than the panic in the street. I’m standing on the overlook, the highest patch of dirt, Categorizing everything that has the power to burn. The grass is flattened sideways, all the silver undersides Exposed to the velocity where absolutely nothing hides. I watch the treeline shudder, I interrogate the brush, I’m listening for a footstep in the overwhelming rush. I’ve got the hilt in both my hands, it’s heavy in the grip. I’m bracing for the pivot and I’m ready for the slip. I’m asking all the questions that the weather won’t indulge, I’m looking for the fracture or the secret in the skull. The blade is pointed upward at a sky of moving slate, I haven’t found a target but I’m terrified to break. Eleven starlings scatter in a ragged little arc. I track the broken vectors as the afternoon goes hard. The brain demands a pattern from the chaos of the flock, I analyze the feathers while I’m staring at the clock. Is it a warning signal? Is it just a gust of cold? I grip the leather handle till my knuckles double-fold. I need to know the origin, the motive of the storm, I’m parsing out the data to establish what is wrong. I’ve got the hilt in both my hands, it’s heavy in the grip. I’m bracing for the pivot and I’m ready for the slip. I’m asking all the questions that the weather won’t indulge, I’m looking for the fracture or the secret in the skull. The blade is pointed upward at a sky of moving slate, I haven’t found a target but I’m terrified to break. The edge is sharpened perfectly, a millimeter thin. I’ve got the opening argument, I’m ready to begin. But who am I cross-examining? The hilltop is so bare. I’m swinging at the oxygen. I’m cutting up the breath. I parry with the atmosphere, I thrust into the void, A brilliant little intellect, completely unemployed. The grass is bending eastward now. The birds are out of sight. I’m holding up the metal to the fading of the light. I’ve got the perfect answer. I just need someone to strike.