The Perfect Storm

I wrote this today in the midst of a horrendous storm, while waiting at my friend's 40th surprise B-day party, where he and his wife, who is pregnant, were en route, caught in the midst of the weather.

                            

 

 

                                                                        The Perfect Storm

 

 

 

                                       

There is a growing, creeping, engulfment of some force

Overtaking with it's teasing insinuations.

Maybe it's the vine grown through my window sill,

Or a fog with tiger's paws sneaking surreptitiously

under at the quiet of dusk.

It is a radiance and horror  foreboding life,

The decay and degradation of the body,

The deep inhale and sigh of  wondrous mystery,

How could anyone know, or say they know?!

How this whole theatre, dance, carnival got started?

A child makes his way, barely, through, into, approaching,

What is beyond anything known and unknown?

But overwhelmingly, the stark structure of a storm, a life, a poem,

The dirge of some procession, impending, threatening,

Seducing in the ways of Nature,

Is the all  encompassing love I feel for you.

Maybe it will destroy me, it already has.

Maybe I am born anew, I am.

Maybe it is the call of death itself,

Inviting me into his golden carriage,

Taking me to some ball,

Where I am the guest of honor.