As I escaped his grasp
I almost couldn't squeeze
through the iron curtain.
His teeth wanted to sabotage
his tongue wanted to obey
his mind wanted to go
beat in syncopated rhythm
to the raindrops
ripped from the thunderclouds
on a moonless night.
Baby, baby. . .won't you come inside?
It's cold out here
and there's a story in your eyes
with ink spilling from the corners.
As I formed on a stiff breeze
come flying by in the darkness
I knew that I was flash in the pan
that don't even extend the length of their fingers.
There is energy in parting
saccharine sorrow sewn into the splitting sides
Said the lightning bolt to the gust,
"and we wonder why life is a comedy of errors?"
If only you could see the world as I do
you could understand the bursting laughter
of the falsities spoken into stormy nights.
They have put an end to more beautiful dusks
than I care to count
masking it as beauty
it is afraid of me.
Maybe I have seen its true face
etched into a raindrop
by their feet
Baby, baby, won't you come inside?
it's cold out here and I wonder,
what was the use of crying?
I don't want to leave
of thoughts without being.
But how things have to be
is how they have the be
floating into the space between
the parted clouds
of their palms, I wonder:
what would this storm be like if I'd never been born?
I asked her what I sounded like.
She kissed him,
and the lightning struck,
and she walked away.