Marked Rain

It must have poured.

 

My head was flotsam. Swirling against the incipient depths that care not for shallow realms of "unaware". Those constant thoughts that claim an unwelcome vantage in the white-caps between full on mad and desktop dreary were now firmly in control. I had become their delusional resident ; morphed into a box eyed prisoner.  The last I had recalled there was a cross of storms rapidly approaching and I was perched on the imminent front.

Perhaps it was the silence in my voice. Perhaps it was the howl within hers. 

But the fevers would come soon enough.

 

First breath:

Fate.

It has no rivets in causation. It smiles with a precision held indirectly... and that is all.

 

When I came to, the city was gone.

Not a spit of spirit ambled about the vaporous streets.

Pale was my only ember in cognition drifting between the insatiable optical wars and the bodies floating up from the alacritous clouds still bargaining. Both had found me lacking. In the end dreams will only take you so far; the rest is Muir footage.

I had had these horrible mandates forcing themselves out and into my nucleus; but what were these implausible seasons:  

Could the well of Earth have primed this glaze up from the sweat of her own benevolent bowel?  She has wounds to be sewn and we are barred from the sanskrit of magma. We are insufficient to speak of the marrow in universal acts. 

Could this sphere of bubbling faltering flesh simply have fallen and disappeared into the crevices of the endothermic? I couldn’t deny my view: Beyond this foggy course lay blood...And blood be it clear or not, has a source. I accepted my part and it was only then that the hook recovered me from the river.

 

In the awakening I scrambled back from the cold hazy waters. Pushing myself forward and upward till a beast of crackling light and thirst-filled patterns of blue entered into the commerce through the warm stench of my lungs. I was roused and bullied to my senses and in the press of daylight all was ill and black.

Children with their eyes sewn down walked blindly into robotic submission and littered the cut-up canopy. Birds seemed to froth from every branch. The radios, once mad in their pregnancy of white noise, now hummed into a singular voice.  My head no longer tapped with maddening static as if some leaky faucet dripping into the night. 

I was free.

I thought nostalgically over my watery end. I thought - then pondered whether it was in our living that existed this true mark of rain.

Eventually blood will find its pulse in a thirsty hand. And when it does the fog and river will rise again.

Just the thought brings a smile to my room.

Reviews

[Priscilla Sayers]

And so....
I smell the rain, feel its presence looming only spaces away from where I have ventured
Seeking to find that the moisture drips slowly from these eyes and the floods derail the essence of the cleansing rain....
Smiles vary, mine creeps....

[Perdition]

And so.....
You are a very gifted voice Canvas. Let not the noise come mental deluge alter your rain nor the cleansing thereafter. I do so love these words of yours C...Smile at any pace you choose..Thats what I do. Thanks!!