Revolution does not begin in silence,
but with whispers–
a steady rise in tempo,

a cacophony of intent, leading to anarchy.
She says I’m inciting chaos
and my coworkers shun me in aftermath

because I dared question a flaw– a fault–
a crack in the earth
where mountains rise and sidewalks tremble.

I’m inciting chaos– but it was just conversation,
the kind that signs declarations, constitutions
and drafts beget into militia standings–

because how dare I speak in private?
I notice discourse, and I follow,
and question designs built on theft,

braced upon effort to keep us docile.
My chaos
Pulses in my temple– but with accusal

I’ll graft it upon my knuckles, my
wrists, arms, and face.
I’ll be the hurricane they sought to quell–

the fire, the rage burning in hearts,
minds, and whispers. I’ll light
that match, and watch their worlds burn.

I can be that whisper.
I can be that chaos.