Pressure building to a storm

Atmosphere tightening, shifting around me

Skimming the surface

Rippling the water


Slowly shift sands slipping silkily, silently, beneath my feet

Cracking the sediment on which I’ve built the foundation
or my kingdom

For my kingdom

Who needs kingdoms?

            I ask myself

            Pretending a voice, a choice

            In the volcanic flow

            Creation and destruction

            Of “supposed to”

Who needs kingdoms indeed…

Return me to the wild

Turn me out to wind and weather

To weather the odds with my soul’s mates

To kindle the fires of those flickering dark

To save the faltering footsteps of fools falling to the pyre

Sometimes I am those fools

            Fearing the darkness

            Screaming against the night

There is no darkness out there

Only scorching, blinding, white heat

Consuming the marrow of the lost

Leaving broken, brittle bones and dust

Bleaching in the sun

Fire also cauterizes, cleanses…

But this is not fire

Storms desolate

The only salvation is by omission


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