An Epiphany, to the Sound of Thunder.

The cool rainy wind

Has a body.
The cells lie spat upon, glittering
Silver on the road, floating and
Sinking in its transparent life blood
Coming down from the heavens-
The swirling violet nothingness in
The spools of its brain is smoothed out
And tacked like pellets and platelets onto
A month-old lethal-bruise sky,
Heavy, devilish purple fighting back
Streaks of screaming red, while the trees
Glimmering like guilty swords
Jut out proud their sodden-antler heads;

Drafts of an electric heat shoot down
Its temples with a rush of blood
From its drifting feather clumped head and
Lashes its yellow tongue of leaves
But gently at the insects that whizz
Like nuggets of an alight sort of gold
Under its one good eyeball, multiplying in
Streetlights, chandeliers in porticos and
Undersides of shanty roofs, always
Complaining of blinding half-truths
In the shadows falling on the wall across it;
It has the noiseless voice of the new,
Rattling through its arched-back cat-bones
In stealth, until its hair rises
Like smoke from a far-off land
Incredibly old but the least foreign
Like resisting cheap plastic parasols
That it has come into contact with, 
Attempting to build a home but always
Ended up pock-marking its own skin
With kamikaze dreams of China pots
Surviving an eruption of volcanoes;
Like the rotting coils of its inner ear
Winding and unwinding and rewinding,
Clandestine roads drive us on,
Towards the greater purpose 
Of being swallowed by a
Rain-washed, red light glazed-eye
Womb of meaning that lies ahead
Throbbing and flitting and beckoning
Us, with a darkness
More solemn, fertile and present
Than the one inside ourselves;
The cool rainy wind

Preaches to us, the religion
Of temporary comforting
Things and amplifications
Of the same, vapid nothing.

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