The winds have retired
to stagnant air—a stillness
restrained by tension.
One that can only signify
a gnawing anticipation
of the unpredictable.

Anything that can be said
shouldn’t be, but the words
shunned to our minds
burn at our tongues—
and it only takes
one forlorn look
to remind you
that the storm will not
dissipate if you only
shut your window.

What have we become?
We died at the pinnacle
with the ruthless anticipation
of a stillborn infant—
a corpse before a body,
decimated by the arbitrary brutality
of nature.

I pray to a god I shouldn’t believe in
for some eventual day
of enlightenment—
where the dilemma lies, however,
isn’t whether this day
should occur,
but rather when we’ll strip out of
dignity, and stand in the nakedness
of how dearly we love
to torment ourselves.