Liquid Rage


Ink soaked cotton, drips over the rise.
The sky splits
In a venomous rage
Of fractured white neon,
Cutting through the bruises
That hang, mottled
Like drapes of gray clotted gauze.
As the rains pummel the lands to the east.

The wind is a banshee
Spitting breaths
Loosed from the snakes of Medusa.
Whipping in coils.
Striking the trees.
They complain as one
Like a room full of starched dressed
Cackling gossips, limbs complaining
As they rustle and bluster their contempt.

Rain falls, not in fingers but like fists.
Liquid hammers
On a drunken march of liquid rage,
As wildflowers and hibiscus
Pull back their lips, afraid to even sip.
It rolls on, away, to torment the fields,
The land, like I,
Express a collective sigh
Of respect, of awe, of relief.
We drink.