Some aftermaths burst unseen within,
as aftershocks of sorrow,
arriving as electric jolts
that crash through your skin.
Those shockwaves subside, twinkle out
the Kleenex runs out, then you patch up
like a pair of jeans you cannot throw away.
Then there is that other kind…
those become a stealth lingering,
a picture hung at the back of your mind,
a denial hovering over you
like a Hokusai ‘Wave’ always a verge,
a toppling brink
that falls so slow you don’t see it
because you are in that image somewhere.
It’s a cold tidal wave
waiting to scorch you tongue
with another winters frostbite.
That kind of aftermath is always at hand
to drown you again.
When you feel that towering brim
shout at it
just as loud as you can.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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