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Pandas
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Wonderstorm
Could you ever love what's left?
Could I have just felt a draft?
Those outlines cut dusk skies.
Those outlines block sunrise.
How staggering the trash multiplies.
Stretch and tan the cockroach hydes.
When nothing is comfortable at times,
and a clean slate's hard to deny.
In wilderness we're alright.
In wilderness we'll be just fine.
You're not the rain that makes flowers grow.
You're not the rain the floods desert floors.
You're not the storm that soaks to aquafers.
You're not the storm that fills watering holes.
You're the storm that flashes, burns, explodes.
O how the waves of magenta corrode.
O how the skyscrappers uproot and dissolve.
What we were is gone.
What was there is now all reduced back to basic carbon.
O how the horizons shimmer and bake.
O how the heat melts my aftertaste.
An ode to all the ghosts that now dissintigrate.
You seem so upset from this.
Is this what you'd call amiss?
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Sure they're things I might miss,
but she'll burn what I can't dismiss.
Run. Run. The satellites are crumbling.
Run. Run. The ashes keep on piling.
Run. Run. Your constructs, so underwhelming
in this fire-storm's wake.
Just a small bit
of a re-assessment.
All reset.
An edit. A respite is left.
Gone. Gone. The meetings you have set.
Gone. Gone. Your college alma maters and morgage payments.
Gone. Gone. All those wine parties.
Gone. Gone. The big screen T.V.s and ideologies.
Gone. Gone. Those one-night stands.
Gone. Gone. The tarnish collected around your wedding bands.
The past is cauterized. The cities, buried now.
Just you and I and the fertile ground.
The past is cauterized. The cities, buried now.
Just you and I and the fertile ground.
Just you and I and the fertile ground.
Just you and I.
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