There is a silence before rain falls
hissing through atoms, empty, threatening,
soldiers of nature crashing into life.
But what of all the crimson blood that spills?
I grasp at the lose threads of my shadow
as it splits, a fierce drum, beating, beating.
A blunt knife tearing heaving hearts chambers.
I count in my mind how many foot steps,
one for each sting of thunders dropping light.
One hundred? Two hundred? I estimate
five hundred. Five hundred shards of my soul
scattered through tiny drops of petrichor.
The earthly fragrance, natures pure blessing
and yet a curse defined in your young heart
but does it beat now rapid screams of need.
There goes another shard, sharp and glossy
outer glow of maternal lubricant.
If only I were your belief. Your hero.
Powered by the Gods, a new mutation
chemically, born to other planets. . .
I could slow the falling bullets of rain
Calm the orchestra of your blood playing
in your ears. I could transmit messages
skimming across the surface water drum.
Manipulate cloud and envelope you
in protective fluff mothers wings out stretched
I would fly the universe for you, dear
my spirit catching claps of blue thunder
between the falling tears of hell’s recluse
Karen Hayward ©2017
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