It is
lightening
that
grins in its
tight
lipped darkness
before
flashing
that
winning smile,
isn’t
it?
That
absolute fascination
with
the impending,
more
than just tumultuous
fast
approaching.
It is
precursors
towards
imminence,
faster than
a cobra strike,
a
chemistry that has
explosive
cause
and
now, circumstance,
to face
us, head on.
It
silently has
alchemical
composition
way
before it has composure
to have
or be, for us, an event.
That I
return to this
flash
of expectancy,
over and
over,
is my
conundrum.
I am
here to discover
what
the Blue angels
at mock
speed
directly
overhead
so
easily try to tell me.
It is a
rapid change in focus,
an
unanticipated locational shift
of
wondrous sense-levity.
Yet, in
a global sense,
lightening
is always happening,
tickling
with delight somewhere,
as well
as human laughter.
How
consciously prepared am I
for a
lightening strike,
if I am a
self-consciousness
as a
bystander to myself?
Well,
these fistfuls of thoughts
are a
muted lightening of sorts.
Oh go
ahead and mock me.
Logic is
always as audience.
Conclusions
gather loudest
as a
silent clapping
in
appreciation.
Notice as
a convention,
comprises
the chorus
but never
the original lyrics . . .
I stanza
my ground!
I am
joyfully here,
yes, waiting.
Waiting
for a winning smile
to smack
me
again
into laughter . . .
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