brontide

truth is fleeting;

those rumbles of a distant time are long forgotten,

some mislaid promises are foggy, the voices she remembers are

resonances of rain tapping on her window

around the moment the sky returns to grey.

her ideas are that of slags of lightning

perplexing, mesmerizing flashes of beautiful creation,

but too soon they vanish.

her head is punishing, striking her cheek

until her face turns matchbox red.

dwelling within an era where thought is rare,

don't wait for a fly to take slumber on

an eyelash.

the night's end brings burning black skies.

i wonder of what happened.