Imperfect Storm
The clouds are lost in battle - there's nowhere for them to hide
but they hear a voice of hope that's speaking softly in the wind
between the bolts of lightning, it is offering a guide
in a rumour bright and shiny and as magical as sin
So even as the vortex drags them downwards in its rage
they have heard they'll be uplifted in a chariot of gold
whose advent will be imminent - it's waiting just off stage -
a deus ex machina reaching out to save their souls
The clouds invoke a chorus, but their voices cannot sing
in anything but discord as cacophonous as cancer
and the sad, bewildered creature hanging limply in the wings
tries to join in, but its croaking voice can never be an answer
Roaring now in desperation, thunder calls for more control
but sobbing quietly in the dark, the clouds become bereft
for this rumbling, poisonous air can only rattle with the cold
And the night grows ever deeper, engulfing all that's left
Unheeded Warning
Expectantly, you peer behind you
but it's only dried, desperate leaves
scattering and teasing the footpath
in a wind whose breath is focused and unforgiving
leaving you behind like a ghost at the gates
A question once formed with confidence
stays unasked and instead
your open mouth becomes a slow gape
of loneliness and realisation
You are witnessing something mapped
in a designated pattern
you glimpsed once in a dream
at the dawn of time
and dismissed as foolish fantasy.
Hilary Thiele
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