Gently Rocked by Iron Clouds
Rainstorms in my head,
thunder crashing against my eyes,
blizzards of primal sounds, a boundless chaos
under each closed eyelid.
Between death and life, peace and strife,
I will sleep upon a cliff edge of self -
as a curled kitten in the palm of a caretaker,
or a dreaming child within an iron skull
of extinction or survival,
I shall wait upon oblivion
as patient as any whittled stone
carved by every ancient wave of time.
There, shorn of identity,
surrender to one last apocalyptic tempest,
resting now as a silent voice
within its tumultuous cradle.
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