Of Fangs and Tempests
She wasn’t quite a summer night,
certainly not a spring day,
she lacked the innocence of spring,
and you’d never confuse her for winter or fall.
She was the thunder in the clouds,
the lightning cutting through the sky,
the fire rolling down the forest.
She wasn’t tame,
no interest in domestication.
She was magic, black magic to the core.
Her only bible used as a doorstop.
You’d never confuse her
for a butterfly or a flower, more a tigress,
all fangs, claws and primal hunger.
Turned me to a leopard in the night,
spots, deep purples, and blues.
It was all spark and combustion,
a high throttled affair,
we split hydrogen atoms for fun.
Recklessness to occupy our restlessness.
When the last bombs had gone off
and the claws could dig no deeper
there was only ash and bone left,
relics in the wind
from a time when fire became us
before we turned to smoke
ripped apart by the ocean tempest.
