Storms are like grunge music festivals
They cause havoc for those who like
The country crooners or Bob Dylan’s harmonica.
And life is never a bed of roses, or lilies or hibiscuses.
No flower can symbolize that grind
That forestalls you before it all begins.
Anticipation is a dark monster and the moment after
A frenzy of synaptic activities, like when a virgin
Decides to take the plunge to the deep end
Not knowing the depths of the swimming pool.
And when the status quo is an ocean on grunge
You caress the eye, like a valium injection,
And pray to St Elmo that the mirage on top
You nickname “hope”, will caress with the same force,
A rope, a line that you draw, to secure
A little place on a jetty, to unload
Your worries, to a wharf with ears.