Lately I have had a feeling of a sense of deep foreboding in the air,
every time I stop to pause, to think, I can feel it just lurking there.

An all pervasive feeling that all things are not as they should be,
and I get an anxious sensation that it's effects are not just on me.

Colours of nature seem all faded and the air seems different too,
the sky is somehow much more ominous and appears a paler blue.

Even the birds I see upon their wing seem more skittish everyday,
and I wonder if they feel it too, does a dark fear halt their play?

I sense a tension in the natural order of these once normal things,
and my heart and mind are fearful of what message this all brings.

Like some silent siren wailing or invisible flashing hazard light,
my mind is filled with deepest dread and senses things aren't right.

Far too much time caught up thinking upon the portents that I see,
with each terrifying thought I pray for all, to hope that its just me.

The rain keeps falling
As dry as a drought.

                       “ Rain drops heavier than water,
                           When it’s laden with doubt. “
He said,
                       “ The ground simply can’t hold it
                                     … So it must go without. “

               ” You’ve never known water to stain,
                  But you’ve never felt this kind of rain.
                  It’s thicker than your skin.
                  It stains your clothes and what’s within.
                  It sounds like hammers as it pounds -
                 And yet, the ground won’t let it in.

          So it flows like a river that only gets bigger;
          It runs like a force that knows no remorse.
                     Despite endless efforts to stop it -
                     It still runs like a faucet…
                                        With nowhere to drain. "

But if the ground holds no plants, is the water so vital?
Is the rain’s sole purpose this lifeless recital?
The ground stays so strong.
It holds fast, like pure stone
But can one stay so long when one’s so alone?
When one is forced to move,
               Will the ground or the rain?
And when the first one has gone,
               Will the other remain?


For now, they coexist,
Each facing a challenge it can’t resist -
Both unstoppable and immovable,
                              They hopelessly persist.
As complements, they combine
                        With the product of a flood.
But the water that’s collecting
                        Has the consistency of blood.

There’s a heart behind this water.
It pulses, instead of flowing.
So you turn to the only man you know,
             for parting words with danger growing.
And he says, as you leave:

               “ I wish you luck where you are going.
                   My son, you’ve only seen the rain . . .
                    . . . The winds are not yet blowing.

Deceivingly aquamarine sky
Oversees the madness of summers
Whose days are closing in
But this time your astral projection
Conquers the atmosphere
And my lungs join the prayer of ribs
Asking for
"Please turn this grasp into a caress
Soothing the burns
That I may have the chance
To become remedy"

Paddling through images on my phone--
they are the only life boat in sight
a little floating canoe in the middle of a mighty ocean.
The tide is turning, trying to advert some ugly storm that's rising up;
debris fills the whirl pool as it slowly tempts to drag my anchor in.

Smudges appear on the glowing screen of my preoccupation,
as the teary drops blotch out the imagery I cling onto.
Only gaining more wind as it descends to sink this dinky ship.

Cascades of waves streamline their way through my finger tips,
settling into the motion, the shambles of the scooter rip away from me
Trembling as the mind wanders from surface to drowning.

Face down in a public space,
without any buoy to hold onto
These rampant waves will water-board the mind.

The campaign to survive, sunk with final life boat
As the perfect storm was able,
to fatally take my breath away.