With hair like
A montage of scorched
Leaves, twisted
With twigs in.
Like the biting chill or
Rustle of great beasts;
Like so many but
None at all,
You make your
Abrupt
Entrance, and
Take down the walls with
Rain.
What resides in your
Torrential mind,
Flickering with light?
A lighthouse or
Flame, yet maybe
A spark, but
Really nothing but
The beacon of your
Consciousness,
Burning your image
Into the back of my eyes,
Blinding.
I can’t see past
Your eyes,
Shuttered and shifting like
Sand, or my restless
Feet,
Filled with ephemeral light.

Caught in a riptide,
Isolation tank, or
Whatever bland metaphor
You’d accept for my
Blank stare.