On Forking Lightning

Pulled under by debts and doubts,
reaching a middle life
with so much and so little to show,
and to not know if his words will ever fork lightning.

Forgotten tales weaved by sweet smiles,
stories of promise,
swimming past in cool, blue currents,
as his giant head bobbed to sleep slowly.

It was youth and folly, fully formed,
fleeing from the green open pastures,
flinging to the ashen streets,
with the buildings covered in mean dust and dreams arrested.

It was the astral projection, the star light
drumming about the dark,
punching through him, past him, rocketing through
a profound parade, a might, a power to behold.

And he danced, and he danced wildly,
in circles around he flailed,
battering the filthy walls as they closed in,
a neat shrinking box for his sin.

And finally it was Night that hovered over him,
in him,
only at peace at rest,
only asleep in his tiny black nest.

His dreams chewed him up and spat him about the room,
tumbling down, covered in the grime,
the time of ill winds and formless fears,
a rotten tomb.

And he was small and naked,
his giant head bobbing again and again,
recalling the old songs of beauty and light,
alone in the middle of the night.

One thought on “On Forking Lightning

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