5.15.2023 - The Water Cycle

5.15.2023
The Water Cycle

The clouds above are glowering down upon my form.
With each separate clap of thunder, a hammer struck,
Upon the anvil of my furrowed brow.
My temples pulsed along with the thrum of lightning.
Even my well-fleshed bones feel like a dissolution,
Like the cataracts of rain are working inside me,
Pouring into my eyes and nose and through imperfect skin.
Chilling my marrow in drowning denial,
Of the fragility of my world,
The impermanent nature of my roof,
The eggshell safety of these panes of glass,
And the ever-whelming pains of my poor thundering head.
I refuse to sip the filtered water in my plastic Starbucks tumbler.
I turn my organs into their own arid desert.
I deny the dubious delights of another packet of Crystal Light,
To make the absence sweet and cool and sating.
With the air full of damp green humid oppression,
I drown in the breathing of it,
And refuse to soak and saturate further.
Which ratchets the vise of my temples,
Wrings whimpers and whispers from my parched throat.
I have to drink to take the Excedrin,
That sits obediently in my palm.
Thus, the water triumphs again.
How very fragile our ideals become,
Once pain wears us down to the bone.