Rust Colored Night


Lightning, then none.  Once more, then done.  Roar, thunder, cannons in the sky.  Humid night,  rain stopped, and sticky air clung on to sweat.

The storm is not far away.

Puddles, tiny rivers, ponds that were parking lots.  Shoes soaked, socks drenched.  It will stay so as well. 

Ash a cigarette in the mud.  Light another for company.  The hours go on, and I feel a little less.  Only older, and no one can stop loss.  A bottle turned up and down, nothing gained.  Just more time lost, and the years seem to go on so.

That no matter what porch that it sit on, no matter what patch of broken asphalt I trod upon, I am here.   I just don’t know here is.

Empty packs, and butts in an ashtray.  Bottles cover a table. Old photos on my cell, as faded as it would be in any album.   My car looks less shiny than it did last year.  Home is another mile further than it was.  One last drag, and count the coins in my old jeans.  Scatter them like gold dust at a poker game in my mind, bluff all my hands, and chuckle.

That it took me this long to realize that I am a tempest, and I go away when the sun feels like lighting up the gloom in my wake.  That every cloud has half it’s life spent becoming one, only to let itself disappear in the wind.

That I’m dark in the sky, and now that time is done.


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