A love-lit bolt has run us through --
now less can never suffice.
So we wander in vain
through mist, through rain
for chance that it might strike twice.

Uncertainty wears combat boots
for what might lie ahead,
dressed to **** the coming thrill
and opt for something sure instead.

Ready to face the feasible,
the imaginable fall,
uncertainty wears combat boots
while elation wears nothing at all.

An existence quantified
in lowered eyes and
upside down pirouettes,
sighing with the stars
and dreaming of the hours
when gravity was forgiving
and the universe was
firmly right-side up.

Thunder falls silent, and none too soon,
before an empty throne --
a once-great beast
ere final feast
now sovereign of vapor and bone.

The earth packs tight between the treads
as needles break beneath,
while arches wander
ever fonder
of the rush their steps bequeath.

We remember what it sounds like --
euphoria hot off the wire,
a whisper down a twisted spine,
a barrage of internal cannon fire.
An epidermal power surge,
a taste of commotion worth living for.
We remember what it sounds like --
we just don't hear it anymore.

Some aspire to
breeze-bent meadowgrass
and cattail lullabies,
but are destined for
gravel under tires
and snow on the
mountaintops.
All things considered,
I don't mind the cold.