Futile Arson

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I tried to write a poem about the heavy rain,

but it's been done, it's all been said.

Writing about the heaviness

doesn't lift the weight.

I'm going to google emotional train wreck

and see what comes up.

One way or another, this house

is going to go up in flames.

My fingers smell burnt and

my eyelashes are singed.

Perhaps we drank too much until

the soft light made us dizzy.

Passed out and woke up without

a memory of all the storms

that had passed in the night.

The heavy rain seeping into our bones,

i wanted to sit there forever,

then we got up to leave.

More dessert would be absurd,

more sleep, more sex,

more conversation, i want it all, i feel it all.

Googling impossible to satisfy,

the moon made me this way.

The sky is gray out there, maybe the house

wont catch fire, maybe it can't

through all this dampness,

like each street is smeared

with thick oil paints,

even my sheets feel damp.

Do i sweat through those odd,

twisted dreams, or does the heavy rain

find it's way into my bed?

How can i feel so empty and

so full at the same time?

Googling complex contradiction.

The wind is starting to pick up, intense,

but it might help to dry things out a bit,

lift the gray ceiling off my head.

It's pushing down, pushing

my head into my heart,

gotta get those two straight again.

Gotta push back up at that sky.

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This work by mysticdave is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.