by Lisa M. Gott
Heavy clouds creep across
forgotten lands — a storm is coming,
blowing the tumble weeds
of my own destruction
across the never-ending fields
of a place once called home.
Parched, the soil cries out,
O, clouds, rain down on me,
wash away this decay
so that blades of glory
may rise up and reach
toward possibility.
Blackness circles — a vulture,
sensing the rotting shell
of a heart and soul
discarded amongst
the billowing sheets
of a soiled life.
The baritone threats of thunder
shake the thin glass that encases
this delicate existence —
one last chance
to remember the once rich
soil that was your foundation.
Microscopic bits of what was,
nearly buried under the
weight of a million
other storms — they remember,
shooting sparks, igniting a fire
that will roll across these lands.
The storm clouds recede
and the wind dances —
ruby red and golden gems
glow against the bitter dark
taking possession of everything
their fiery fingers touch.
Sometimes you need to burn
in order to live again.