Storm in Late Spring

The fecund skies
were heavy,
impatient with the end times
of their confinement -
steam and heat (always, always heat)
rising in ripe, smoking swaths
from the torn and saturated street.
And my lungs filling,
choking in the syrupy promise,
El Purgatorio.

(and the deluge came
and I awoke to the dark
of prophecies fulfilling
and the chilled flesh
and the damp bones
the mourning sky)

The aftermath a purpled stillness,
With the
of movement -
(slumber in the valley of the shadow)
inertia sweeping in on its invarient,
obsidian veined, dragon's blood wings.
I whispered.
"Now it comes."

(and the morning
the postpardom dawn
and the knife against the glass
and I shall fear…
and the incision of light
and I shall fear no…
and the indecision shattered
and I shall fear no evil…
the time has come)

For it is dry,
For the light breaks against the glass,

Now comes the cold.