Do the storms still make me
wild?
Does there remain a howling gale
which rattles bones
leaving me yearning
for the destruction
of a wreckage old?
When rain drops trickle
then pour down
in torrential torment
does it whisper to me
to leap through the puddles
as lightening flashes above?
Are those blackening clouds
still the one thing
that can make me feel
when all else leaves me numb?
Perhaps I grew accustomed
to screaming and bellowing
and hurling things
amid a detonated rage.
Perhaps I relate
to screeching winds against glass
when it pounds on windows
desperate to find refuge
where no one will take it in.
Or maybe too many nights
I cried in the sheets of rain
stinging skin, thank goodness
for the pain,
for something…
Or maybe I live
for the quiescent moment
it all blows over;
rain whispers,
winds murmur,
lightening dims,
thunder mumbles.
Could it be
that I’ve been seeking
my wild side once more?
No longer found
at the bottom of a bottle
or the end of a cigarette
in neon lights;
no longer found
stumbling home at 3 a.m.
to dreaded silence.
No, the wildflowers
resurrect my soul
in their drinking of the rain.
Trees bend and break
with tornado-esque gales
like I do.
The skies must release
their agony once in a while,
when the world
becomes too much;
when the screaming, crying,
desperation and rage
overwhelm everything.
We’ve never been much different,
the storm and I.
But now I stand in its power
to heal
instead of wishing
for my end.
Comments