Common Sense

There's a storm I know by name. Its rich cacophony is my lullaby. As night after night it stomps its way through the darkness. Trudging in the same way that I write. Backwards across empty bottles. Whose labels by morning are lost. In the verdant strangle of hope's callous grip. As it seizes upon the most frail of saplings in this bloated forest life expounds.

There is a storm. That I know. Its name is there in every eye that's looked upon. And each finger that has touched. Frozen in the moment between desire and experience. Life. That cruel time machine that turns children into adults.

The last apple dangling from a dying tree. Grins broken teeth. A smile just outside the caress of fallen friends. Tombs below. And above. Sacred meat trembling below the skin.

But they world only sees red. Only sees it trying to hold onto what has already let it go.

I can smell the ground. The strangely pleasant odor of the fall. As it taps at my nostrils like hammers on a piano. The click. Click. Click. Of a rapid fire shutter going off. Vision. Scent. Sound. It's all there.

But I still can't see how far I've gone.