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A Storm in Her Love

Kenneth, loves satire and writings to spotlight others, but he also has an "addiction" so to speak, to dramatic and abstract/prose poetry.

 Van gogh Landscape from Saint Remy.

Van gogh Landscape from Saint Remy.

I'm the storm alright. Unlike any storm you've seen or dreamed
Although I am now eternal, silent, but yet call out in various means.
I can even seize your dreams, and starve you to turning foot so lean.
I can. And I have. Do not beg me for mercy. Do not scream.

I was not born, the darkest storm ever seen. I was not created
And no, young fool, I did not find a matching creation to mate.
I suffered. I bled. I even saw the laughter in your eyes
Now I only see the age, the wrinkled thoughts that once held lies.

But son, my foolish, foolish son, you wasted the waste
And dragged the taste from corn, rye, and darker loving mates.
With no dry lips, you seek no wisdom from a storm such as I
Just existing on a sword's sheen'd edge and love now is late.

Way too late.

I wish that I had a tool, a means, a vision maybe through prickled briers
And fickled barns to catch just one of your forgotten dreams.
But a storm is not for means for such an entity as I
Should walk easy, foolish one, for I shall never see death.

Oh, yes, my winds to you had best beware and be timid
And pray to your God that you grow like rock unlimited.
A chance of glimmer'd smile you may never see
But always know that I live here not you, but me.

Oh, terrible, terrible nightmare a lad you once lived
And took the niceties and candy slice pieces never giving.
Unforgiving and seeing you in me . . .
I am your mirror, foolish soul, I can cause darkness to speak
Without you walking in fog that I see.

I wonder, young fool, why I haven't been more of a storm
Not a calm. Not a peace, but a ripping, slicing, freezing
Land of water gone and lands to you unknown, unadorned.
I am the storm. I see you through the keyhole forlorn.

I live silently walking, stalking and reigning o'er your dim days
I can drink the nectar of your spirit and curse the sun's cursed rays.
But in a moment of weakness, a rarity, I must say
You will never hold me, foolish soul, I will just easily speak and fade away.

So much of you I drew from in younger dreams of rusty bed
And you saw no sleep or lumber creak, just images in a lonely head.
I saw you beaten and crushed when no breath you breathed
And laughed once as you begged for death while a heart just heaved.

But now, I confess something confidentially
One of us is older and that is just pure incident.
I suppose you guess it's me that this age you see
No so, foolish wanderer, I am you and never will be.

Walk easy grown man in wilder days of lover's swings
Drink her love and sip her lips of wine
Never make a foolish promise to only be thine.
I am you and you are never mine.

So foolish man, what now does a storm really do?
I grow weary of waging war on barns and homes be few.
But one thing's certain as you crawl away
One of us lived this day and the other died in on another way.

Repro from art book--Van Gogh View Montemarte before a storm.

Repro from art book--Van Gogh View Montemarte before a storm.

© 2017 Kenneth Avery