A poem I wrote while quarantining.  It doesn’t make any sense, but I had fun writing it.  Note: it sounds a bit better when read out loud.

The Last Storm

Wash of rain escalating, winds howling.
Wolves vanishing into black holes.
Ghosts hidden in the organ playing
so loud, so haunting.  

Airplanes in the sky, silver and melting.
Eyes on the moon shining their tears.
In the ocean, colossal waves crashing,
wild sirens submerged.

Magenta sky, hot, feverish like mercury.
The sun a disc that died long ago.
People’s bodies, brittle and shaking,
bursting into bones.

Mountains rising, earthquakes resounding.
Serpents whorling in and out of clouds.
Seesawing the sounds of voices, despair.
Witches in the world’s ears.

Hearts, dispersed, lay in distant deserts.
Collapsing the tranquility of dreams.
Silver lining not here, nor an ever after.
Last storm awakening.

It was inspired by a Weyes Blood song called “Storms that Breed.”  I actually wrote the poem while listening to this song on repeat, ha.  Click on the video below to hear the song!

It’s only been 11 days.  Still, I miss my community very much.  Over the last week, I had been sick and so hadn’t quite internalized the depths of isolation I would be experiencing.  I had the benefit of being tired and miserable, which made each day seem faraway.  Now, I’m well.  And this means I’m hungry, restless, and fully aware of this pandemic and its consequences.

What will happen when I return to my community?  Will anything even be the same?  How will all the people I know change?  How will I, myself, change?  Fissures in my world.  Things falling in.  Will I lose some people?  Will the isolation have a profound affect on me psychologically, especially given I do not live with anyone I can confide in?

Creatively, I’m stoked.  I’ve spent the last few days writing poetry and drawing.  I’m happy when doing that.  There are no interruptions anymore.  Ideas I have just bloom and expand.  I get lost in my own flow.  I can actually envision myself finishing a small collection of poetry or a detailed drawing in a matter of weeks, not months or years.  That is great.  But when I snap out of my trance, I remember Earth is turning.  All the people and things are moving through time.  And they are changing, a lot.

What kind of change will I return to?  Change is hard to face.  I’m afraid of it, honestly.  Particularly, I’m afraid of change when I don’t get to witness its gradual process.  I am afraid of change that is sudden, that knocks me off my feet.

However, I have no choice but to make myself ready.

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