The looming storm.
Impending doom, though it’ll never really reach you. Will it?
Forever in the distance,
But close enough to drench you,
Gray, no –black.
Devoid of everything but full, too full, of everything at the same time.
Dull, but as a painful sort of sensation.
Jagged edges, not quite like a razor, not enough to frighten most people
But when applied continuously, persistently,
Do enough damage, do more damage.
(Although the edges get sharper as time stretches on,
How is that possible?)
With the patience of death lurking around the corner from certain catastrophe,
Hits like a hurricane touching down on the coastline,
Like a tornado touching down,
Shredding everything in its path with the force of pure chaos on its side.
It comes. It destroys.
And then it leaves.
It leaves. Eventually.
You are left among the wreckage,
Life and all that it holds strewn about,
Tossed around like garbage. (It adds insult to injury)
The tattered pieces,
The frayed connections that tie who you were to who you now are,
They’re barely even present anymore.
But you. You…
You are tasked with putting it all together again.
Making sense of it,
But not the same sense it had before.
Put the puzzle together but arrange the shards of it differently.
How very disturbing that you’re in this place, again,
But the reworking, the rebuilding, the reconnecting…
Creates a mosaic. It’s the best you can do.
It’s beautiful, especially from a distance.
Especially from this safe distance.
You’ve removed yourself from it…for protective purposes.
Meanwhile, you make an emergency plan, map out your escape route,
Hoping to hell you’ll never have to use it.
You hide the sticks of dynamite, may they never be found
By the looming storm, the approaching apocalypse,
That is still, STILL in the distance.