Chance of Showers

Predetermined winds have haunted the air since a dance of words was spoken, a narrative choked; esophaugus contracted and a diaphram paused, summoning the voice of gods in thunder, from heaven underground. 

Pushed its light into the dark day’s clouds, starting fires in small towns. Let the earth be torn asunder! Mushroom cloud, razor thin. 

Radioactive only insofar as burning skin. 

Fork in a socket, open air pockets, freefall droplets whispering swim. 

It’s as if nature planned this on a whim, catastrophe within a chance of showers. Like my keyboard devours white space, it’s a love affair soured by destruction in our wakes. 

Hers is ferocious, voluptuous in bite. 

Mine’s a dichotomy of sobriety and vice. 

We both hear the whispers, vaulting through the night, both offering solace for those without a light. Only hers will strike and mine will erode for even poems don’t explode to her degree; and if they ever do you 

don’t escape with your life.


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