Monday, January 24, 2011

played the bull-roarer

The instrument swung,

the storm-spell starts

stormfront juggernaut

impending from the West

potential promise is spent

I’m staring at a stillborn miracle

trying to shift from emotional

to a perspective more empirical

while gales of sorrow

whisk away that will

the thunderstorm, a cruel turmoil

pelting bullets upon an open lake

pygmy crowns of liquid they shape

ascend and reprimand my head

the complexities of these

vertices of wind extend

with cold claws coring

out my center, the thunderhead

hollers with lightning applause

churning cloud of torment,

contains screen doors, fence lines

and a barrage of odd objects

torn from their usual climes

irrevocable eradication from

the spumous mass advancing

without fail to my location

I am in its thrall, can only stand

with head held in defiance

awaiting certain devastation

with a fractious scowl,

doomed yet dogged

for I played the bull-roarer.

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