I Was Supposed to Be a Bolt of Lightning

A dance. Chaos above. Look up, don’t look up. Find shelter. Clambering. Nonstop, unrelenting noise. It doesn’t stop. It won’t, it can’t. Smashing. Intertwining. Corrupt sky’s. Sun clouds bleeding.

I Was Supposed to Be a Bolt of Lightning

A single outcry. One key pressed on the piano. A single note. Then not. Abrupt. Not sustained. Then gone. An empty chair. Dissipated.

I Was Supposed to Be a Bolt of Lightning

Explosion born from a single source, fingers reaching to the ground, extending, stretching like snow covered branches falling over the still lake. Splitting the heavens in two. Forcing its raw pure power unrelenting and true to its destination. Determined. One purpose, one goal.

I Was Supposed to Be a Bolt of Lightning                                      

But just for a minute, at that time. That place. Weather seen or not. Just for that Fourth of July. Then. Now. There. Nonstop chatter. Extreme. Loud. Amazing. Intense, and brilliant, and then nothing. Chills left behind. Memory of excitement. Gone.
Conversations.
A photo?

I Was Supposed to Be a Bolt of Lightning

But it’s trapped. All that energy. All that shear will. All that wasted potential. Yes. It’s in the yellow and white stained-glass bottle. The dusty one in the basement. The one that sits alone on the window sill. The one in the sun. The one with the chewed cork lid. The one that used to serve a purpose. Contained. The one that’s now forget.