July 15 by The Running Son
(◎)•– Impact –•(◎)
At Eight o’clock I wake up shocked.
Feels like I’m overdosing on ibuprofen–
is it eight am? No, pm, and clouds are creeping in
and they’re funneling, so shades are drawn,
windows shut and Tylenol popped.
These damn winds have topped all records,
far too imposing to stop for even seconds
and stare. Exploding desert air is dry as hell
and only time will tell if this care taken
can protect myself from hell’s retribution
(cast in impact blasts, but masked
in the vast celestial veneer of thin air),
and crack this impact protective coating
and our cold heart illusion barriers;
our cell walls. But I couldn’t care–
I will carry you. I feel well–want to marry you
still. I tell you: after this mutual abuse,
this hurling of words til we’re both confused
like two souls falling in two holes,
I am still strong; I’ve cared long
enough to help protect the ‘you’ that you
yourself long to see, breathing air.
And now that inclimate weathers
have subsided, all insider forecasts
seem moderate to fair.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.