with an unseasonable beauty of thunderclouds,
ladened with promises of lightning and wildfire.
We hold our breath, pack our go-bags, and hope for rain.
The Perseids whisper of distant light in the northern quadrant.
I imagine angels imposed on the levity of the sky,
and think of the inevitable promise of the grave,
how the pretenders and believers alike
eventually succumb to that final darkness.
Don’t they know the story is a run-on life sentence?
8/16/23
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