It started the 8th of June

moving away from too familiar

into too alien,

finding no sane oasis between.

 

Vibrant greens relentlessly fade

to wilting monochromatic drought.

Brown patches emerge with dulled loss

of what might have been a family

an ecological home

a pasture for aging bones,

hinky synapses flaring tornadoes

of heated defeat.

 

Boxes realign themselves

incomprehensibly hiding any value

in their move

from what could have been here

if not left there

where fading memories survive

my loss of presence.

 

Bags batter

bursting malignant neglect.

Chairs no longer fit

for seating hot tempers

of displaced despair.

Dust defecates destiny.

 

A house that should be home

to those grateful for its care;

downsizes redemptive purgation

into shrinking violence,

invisible,

screaming silent strangling sensory strings

slipping

sparkling vents glaring

glacially through stagnant July.

 

Then,

early evening spills thick black.

Tall elder treetops sway

with hope of cathartic wildness,

drama of release

from petulant

radiant

hot.

 

Lightning rolls in thunderous waving walls

and back again in falling grace drops.

Transition storms

through pilgrim soul’s discontented purgatory

in space without place

house without home

faith without hope

place with cavernous time,

mindful without passion.

 

Earth’s sky roars dark wet flashy passion.

Wild yeast superlatively shredding domesticated culture’s skin,

bleaching dark passions from dry-cracked crevices.

 

“Abatement is not removal!”

wild Wicked cackles demented delight.

“If transitions were regenetic

then nomads would rule,

pilgrims would land in paradise estates

with coincidental karmic confidence.”

 

The storm abates,

drought removed.

Thunder claps farewell.

Brief time

now

search evening’s rainbow

before hazing horizon

rolls over light’s last gasp.

As night promises peace,

Thunder cracks and shakes one last reminder.

Serenity is not always sanity.

 

Promise smiles teardrops

on hot tin roofs.