Perfect storm

Enveloped by nubilous darkness
Transfixing the lightning seams
Entreating, bolts for forgiveness
And a coalescence of solidarity

Deafening, the raucous thunder
Rendered silent by a lesser man
Listening to every transgression
Synchrony without and within

Consumed by torrential offerings
Pouring heart and passion forth
Inundated by tearful effluxion
Drowning in sympathetic remorse

Touched by the blossoming fingers
Embraced by the incalescent form
Consoling, the stentorian whispers
Welcomed into a perfect storm

Electrified by savage potential
Illuminating falsehoods and truths
Commingled, they the outcasts
Evanesced beneath brilliant dawn

art: overcast by len-yan

The forest path

He once walked the
forest’s path beneath
its saber arch, listening
to the march of crisp,

falling leaves in the
distance, electrified
by the banshee wails
of crickets keening

through the trees, lulled
into serenity by the
songbird’s reverie
Then from a voluptuous

horizon, came she;
variegating his dwelling
in silvery pendalogues,
poetical prisms, and

sombrous piquancy; wetting
his canopy into myriad
resplendent waterfalls,
accompanying his lullabies

with subdued percussive salt
Until her tempest fell; wild
violence unburdened by
loyalty, deafening howls

disencumbered by honour,
rending a lightning seared
wasteland of stochastic
devastation, clouded by jejune

jealousy and capricious char
His is a forest of memories,
smothered by oppressive
towering rampikes; skeletal

dreams piercing once
vibrant flora, longing
to caress the azure skies
beyond their handless

grasp, seen only when he
ventures paths within
Alone he waits in quietus,
a velleitous tree dying

in the barren wildwood; no
melodies to share his
company, no honour guard
to inhume his bones; his

roots trapped by the soil’s
filth, his marrow decayed
by the forest’s corruption

QBD

scarred bark in the stark darkness
a hinterland of rampikes
hidden within lightning strikes beneath a wrothful sky
fauna trample ample flora
in a panic as the nimbi gaze with a watchful eye
land eroding at the banks
escape the downpour into a fresh moor as the river gorges
on the earth
icthyic dances underwater pleasure pebbles pausing
in the river bed
rapids rumble over stone rubble wreaking havoc
on their homestead
displaced to dwell where dwelled they’d not
but quelled their calls when displaced they got
the wild would wade while the wildwood bade them
over the stones now laid in the flow
in fear they tread while the water fed their fear
until they could not hear the thunder grow

~freewrite, rapid write, quick brain dump

Mighty Sequoia

Me: Mighty Sequoia, why is it that in all but the heaviest downpours, your roots remain dry?

Sequoia: It is because the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve grown, and the deeper my roots burrow into memory far away from the influence of the sky. Only the most unforgiving rain can churn the memories, muddying the soil that time has buried.

Me: …

Me: Mighty Sequoia, I hope one day I’ll have grown as much as you.

Sequoia: For now, little one, suffer not the shade cast by those around you, relish the warmth of life’s fleeting sunbeams; but also, cherish the rain when it falls, for it will surely strengthen your roots, and in time, you’ll have grown beyond your storms.