The Squall Line

I am barely restrained.

Lofting high above roadways and untravelled

Forest paths running amok with desires.

I float on the current of the squall line

Threatening,

Marching,

Chewing and spitting out the undesirable spirits

Wandering the grey plains.

.

The delicious storm clouds roll across my tongue.

Lightning cracks against my molars

And electrifies my throat with broken wants.

Thunder booms within the tart sweetness

The rain brings,

Flooding my mouth,

Cascading down my throat and soothing the burns,

Caressing the wilting summer flowers with relief.

.

I snap and swirl like the tumbling clouds

Descending, dreaming, dying to touch the dirt

They have spent eons nourishing,

But am lofted again twice as high,

High enough to be caught in the cold spirits

Of freezing water and starlight.

High enough to watch blue dreams flicker

Across the black expanse.

.

I ache for it,

For the slippery freedom of the growing, breathing,

Squall line.

It weeps so easily, dies without a gossamer of regret.

In the freefall, the frothing waves below the storm cloud tears

Are little more than a consequence of a dream;

Fallout that will never wage war on my flesh.

Lightning illuminates the pale face of my hopes.

.

Falling like a comet to Earth I puncture the clouds.

Punch through them with all the vengeance

Of a summer moth watching the butterflies

Drink up the warm blood of daylight.

Where is there to land but on petrichor-tainted dirt?

Wind laps at the dew gathering on my face,

The barest hint of a smile forms

In the crinkling corners of my eyes but I can’t die.

.

I am lofted again.

Thunder shatters my teeth and the bright flashes

Once dragging hopeful dreams across my eyes

Rip my retinas and blind me.

The wants in my throat rot where they stand.

Hail batters my bones and pummels soft flesh.

Beyond the beauty of black and blue and green

Skies and skin, I weep.

.

They join the parade of drops tumbling from the fat clouds,

Soaring above river cities and lake houses,

Plopping onto corn leaves and waving trees,

Tasting a freedom I can never know because

I am restrained.

Held to the underside of a colossal riptide.

Drowning in the squall line.

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Silver Serpent Books

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