Culture / Poetry · 15 March 2019

Weather And Not

It’s sugar for sugar
and salt for salt.
If you go down in the flood,
it will be your own fault.

Anxious pessimists
lift their eyes,
scan the skies
predicting rain,
muttering of
impending storms,
frazzled by anticipation,
paralyzed by gloom,
fearing a deluge
of cascading doom.

Too late.

Already the rain
falls steadily.

Rivers rapidly rise.
Fundaments disappear.
The landscape lies
puddled with fears.

They won’t see
how wet they are,
how immersed in loss.

Broken umbrellas flap
flaccid everywhere.

The fractured individual.
The smothering State.
Symbiotic misery.

A slow soaking
of ignored despair.

No more comforting
agreed upon fables.

Hope has been plucked.

Only the flood knows
this drowning flow,
where it goes,
this current of
contemporary fate.

The final islands.
slip beneath its waters.

Beyond love.

Beyond Hate.

Mike Essig
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