11/13/18
Storm surges. Tide magnetizes, its breath hitched by the beauty of the lightning. The water roils, quells, rushes on again. Beat, slash, its angered song thumping the rocks of salt and kelp. Beat, slash, its black fists ball and release. Its frothing brow frowns and fades. Its eyes mist, its body heaving with pressured emotion.
Beat, slash. The sea wants to touch the beautiful clouds but the wind sweeps its cries away. Its calls are furrowed into coves and conches, through every echoing hall of the land--you hear its tortured serenade, you hear it carried to fenceposts by foolish gulls, but you do not hear it rain from the clouds.
For the sky is above it all, the sky cannot understand the tremors and quakes of the ground. It cannot understand the sorrow that fills the sea's trenches, the hot anger that fumbles within its volcanoes. It cannot feel the shift and grind of quarreling plates.
The sky is clear and gray, sending its fleets of leaden clouds to toy with the poor sea.
It does not understand how tremendously the sea's heart constricts when the lightning flashes, how its gut stirs with the thunder.
To the sky, everything below it is just a prop to be played with again, and again, and again.
YOU ARE READING
Hello, November
PoetryThis is a collection of my writings from November 2018. It's a continuation of "Poetry" and "Poetry and Writes", but will be much shorter. I'll try to write something each day of the month and post as I go--even if what I've written sucks. Who care...
