Cassandra

The way it will happen is like this:

A door you've seen before
stands slightly ajar.

A candle within is lit.

The sound of a violin
fills the passage with feeling.

On the roof, a weathervane
quarters the wind.

After you pass through the hall
too dark and too small
for comfort
you will come to an atrium
bright and quiet.

The room will fill with music,
then color, then shadow,
then the curtains will part
and I'll take my seat.

Nothing you hear me say will ever surprise
you.

I am no more prescient than a tree
preparing for storm:

I hold out my leaves,
they turn over.

                     ↟

There's ambush in all of us,
this much I've learned.

Look each gift
in the mouth
as you would a horse.

The jaw holds the secret
the eyes won't show.

Something, which waits,
is always telling lies.


                     ↟

When they stand before me
I see how it is.

The mother they cannot escape,
The lover they secretly hate.

All else they don't foresee  --
the pregnancy, theft, murder, duplicity  --
is simply psychology,
a good guess.

It's not my gift they resent,
my message
they flee.

Truth is everywhere
and easily seen.
Believing one's eyes is the difficulty.