Every storm runs out of rain

And so, it does--
everything passes
into the realm of "what was",
becoming
another memory.

"time" is a fleeting thing ...

^^They say, it heals all wounds,
this thing, called time....

while the storms empty out their rains

and the storms pass, too.

But what, then , these scars
if it all passes and
it all heals?

(that, which doesn't kill you,
makes you stronger?)

Perhaps its sting and luster
are just lost-- with time...
we forgive
accept
acknowledge
yet remember (clearly).

"time" is a fluid thing...

^^and the more fluid it becomes,
the closer we get
to the place
where we see that it all had a purpose
and God asks us all the same question :

"Yes, but did you learn how to love?"

I've never understood the phrase "calm before the storm"
There is no calm before a storm
Those moments are fraught
Twisted and tense
Filled with anxious dread that makes your stomach churn

No
I am calm once the storm has passed
When I run out of rain
When I have raged, and cried, and sobbed
Until there is nothing but the space my storm occupied

That's when I find calm
It's where I find clarity

A storm is a story
A sequence of events
It is the release of pressure
Like most stories
It is best understood at the end

  
A nail from a  
missing shingle    
caught my    
leggings    
as I watched the    
bloated carcass    
of my neighbor’s dog  
drift past    
the rain gutters.    
   
I could hear survivor    
cries in the distance    
and I added my    
voice to theirs    
in some vain    
hope that    
helicopter    
salvation,  
was real.    
   
Beneath my cold    
wet,  
shoeless,    
body    
lies the    
sodden    
remains of    
a life.    
   
My grandpa’s ashes    
bobbing in the living room,    
the linens I’d gotten    
on sale,  
and the    
shoes I didn’t,    
the couch I hated,     
the pans    
I never used,    
my cat’s    
food dishes…    
   
The life.    
For whatever it was worth.    
My life.    
Caught in the riptide  
behind my front door.  
   
I stop yelling for help    
and watch the water
creep closer.    
   
Too heartsick    
to feel more    
than a vague    
desire to
drown    
quickly;    
   
a vague desire
that I wouldn’t tread    
water and struggle;    
that when it washed    
over me  
I wouldn’t fight the    
damn good fight,    
eyes open,    
struggling for    
strength and breath,    
   
that I’d just  
   
let  
   
go.    
   
The rain stopped;    
it always does.    
   
But the danger  
isn’t in the rain    
   
it’s the flood waters.    
   
And they’re still rising.    
 

When you were allowed
to walk  
they took your legs,  
stitched your lips  
until anger dripped  
through the corners  
of your mouth.  
A dead planet, pulled at  
by a burnt-out sun.  
 
Murder came with every season  
 
I feel the shock wave  
as you collide with yourself,  
fake flesh splitting  
from your form,  
microcosms of humanity  
erupt as light,  
new worlds are being created,  
as you grow ideas of a life  
never seen before.  
 

 
I curse the gods in the heavens
as the storms rose from my mouth
and the earth quake
threatening to break underneath me
swallowing my angry tirade
then flooding the land of Nod

where the peoples were groomed as sheep
and food for the wolves
gravity forgot his manners and begin to harvest out of season
the grounds shift and people scream

fire fell from space
they ate good that day
I swallowed my hate
drank my rage
then ran out of time

the waters froze
it's nuclear winter in hell where I now dwell
I ravaged even space

until the atom ate the nucleus
and not a particle was left