Hurrican Wilma In Aftermath
It was a baren world
We fled without a feather of pride
After the storm was gone
Escaping the aftermath to hide
What in you was going on
I remember the fury of the night
And you coming, coming, coming
But never reached beyond the thought
While our lives in a drama was caught
I was your butterfly
And knew when flitting your net
Unless my wings were given rest
The agony of desire
Would exhaust the dream complete
So after the storm had battered roofs
And shredded doors apart
We gathered all that was given
For safe keeping to our hearts
And across the tattered landscape
Of broken arrangements
And sweet interminable arguements
We pick our way
Leaving broken poles of light
Hemmorrhaging water mains
Trees cast on the rubble before our sight
And proude places we could not recognize again
Things so solid
Fallen to tide of air, leaning on our fear
Amidst the squalor's emptiness
Being gripped in the sense of nothingness
And precarious or vulnerable, I do not know
I like a barge was towed against the flow
And Wilma was gone
Long gone, the poor discontented winds, the storm
And looking beyond the first meet
In what language did we learn
This was supposed to be love
Because after frozen life of tepid cities
Compassion becomes a need to give
I saw the dove beating in your hand
A heart about die
But I could not outrun you
We fled beyond the limits of all Gommorah
And love breathing hotly
Its pounding footstep keeping pace
With our puffing bodies
Out of wind, with so much wind already wasted
In the destruction of everything
No obituaries are intended
For so the days that well were blended
And I wade these moments
Breast deep in memory
I wish I could explain cruelty
Or tell the world some science
That would make us beautiful
Without the disgusting violence of the heart
What is it that provoke rational people
To expose their meaninglessness
As if we were all dogs
Crotching landmarks everywhere
And I could not have known with my eyes turned away
For I find great pleasure in the scent of flowers
And scant time to sniff
The vulagarity through us like flotsom drift
There is such a terrible beauty in the past
When the present can only a momengt last
O yes tomorrow though
Tomorrow and tomorrow is so better off
It is always better what we do not know
Always better you should know
Reality is a pale reference
To our expectations
So I will not chide
The borrowed time
And I bear no envy to such a clime
Without the wretched writhing storm.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010
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