Sheet-metal thunder
rattles through bluest skies
and brightest sunshine

Like water running, strange requiem
things I can't recall, though deep in soul feel
these skies, these burning lives
we are wild in the fields
only a sun, a storm, the rain
passing by.

I was raised by a mentally ill father.
Because there is comfort in numbers,
I, too, was afflicted by a similar disorder.
It’s difficult to separate the person from the sickness,
Sometimes impossible.
Sometimes we become the shadowy monster,
Embrace it with wilted roses,
Knowing too well that of everything else,
The disorder will still be there,
Waiting.
My shadow has been dormant.
My father’s is still active,
Seeking.
Sometimes when we meet it’s like a perfect storm,
A tornado of comfort.
Someone understands the climate.
I take my father’s hand encouragingly,
He turns to run, squirrely,
The shadow greets me with open arms.
I love the shadow as much as I love the man.
After all, there is comfort in numbers.

I dwell alone here,
a prisoner within
my own mind and life,
encumbered in burdensome
shackles of my own invention,
locked restraints of self-delusion
to which solely I possess the keys.