
There is a silence before rain
falls hissing through atoms,
empty, threatening, soldiers
of nature crashing into life.
But what of the blood that spills?
I grasp at the lose threads
of my soul as it splits with
each drum a blunt knife
tearing hearts chambers.
I count in my
mind how many foot steps,
one for each sting of thunders drop.
One hundred? Two hundred?
I estimate five hundred.
Five hundred shards of my soul
scattered through petrichor.
The earthly scent is a blessing
and a curse defined in your heart.
Your heart. . .but does it beat now
rapid screams of need? There
goes another shard, sharp and
glossed in maternal lubricant.
If only I were your belief. A hero
powered by the Gods, mutated
chemically, born to other planets. . .
I could slow the rain and calm
the orchestra of blood playing
in your ears. I could transmit
messages across the surface
water, manipulate cloud and
envelope you in protective fluff.
My wings would stretch the
earth in search of you, my
soul would scour the universe
as my spirit caught claps of
thunder between the falling
droplets of rain.
Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words