After the Storm

Her life had always been a thunderstorm.

The world around her had been filled with roars that made hands tremble and hair rise.

(The darkness of a closet was her safe-haven)

The air that gave life was so thick it choked you, the tension always building until it climaxed with a loud CLAP!

The lightning struck.

(Running from the tension ended with scraped knees and split lips.)

There were always raindrops in the storm

Droplets that stained cheeks and hid behind tired smiles

(The rain was no more than a drizzle during the day but at night it became fierce, torrential.)

The people near the storm always closed their doors and covered their windows

They didn’t want the rain to get it,

the lightning to scare their children.

(Oblivion is bliss for some, prolonged agony for others)

 

But then You arrived

Her first umbrella.

You were a vivid spot of red in the ocean of gray

An umbrella that didn’t get lost when the storm hit, but rather rested a hand on her

shoulder and opened in defense against the onslaught

You were the perfect umbrella

Contently tucked into a backpack,

A strong shield against the storm

Never bending

Never breaking

Aiding in her rescue from the caging storm that raised her from birth and claimed her to

be a toy, something weak and

incapable of strength

But the umbrella made her invincible, a shield that turned her into a warrior

 

Warriors are not afraid of the thunderstorm

and

Umbrella’s sometimes save the world

The Elephant in the Room

His eyes were the same shade as the cigarette smoke he expelled with each breath. They wandered the room aimlessly, a cheap imitation of misery danced in their depths.

His youth was glossed with the same cloudy daze found in the gaze of the barkeeps best customer. Flavoured with melancholy, stained with mumbled goodbyes.

His flesh was painted with bruises and scars as expansive as a darkening horizon. The dog tags that dangled from his neck prompted the question, “Abuse or honor?”

His smile was ethereal, delicate. Almost genuine. A heavenly gift blessed upon a boy who was a little too ruined to be an angel.

His hands held history of hard labor and hopeless prayer. They popped and crack in a habit that derived from a nervous tick.  Crunch. Pop. Crack.

His heart played to the rhythm of a ticking time bomb, one beat after another. A steady rhythm that would one day morph into a crescendo, climaxing in a riotous finale.

His tears were always silent, found in sobs that made his body tremble. They were the lullaby his mother always sang, a song passed down through generations that carried him to sleep.

His soul was haunted, a Halloween attraction that was open year round. Some angel’s jump, this one tripped.