The Storm

Sit beneath the weeping leaves.
The storm is beckoning.
Come and go and come again,
these feelings have no end.

Steep and sleek, or short and rounded.
Feel the motion of the roller coaster dim.
Faded, like the memories of age.
The geodesic domes have all been shattered.
The highest high is not enough for you.

Lightning strikes, not once, but twice.
You find yourself awash with cold, hard rain.
Glare of lights upon the black of asphalt
minus grass. Puddles building
in uneven measurements of flat.
Black and white, no colors beckoning.

Knocked out by that ingrained one-two.
You never knew. You never knew.
This love...

? Michaelette ?

6/4/2002
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .