Thursday, 20 September 2018

the storm

the storm 

medusa from her hair in hysteria tore
these spitting serpents’ writhing wails,
screaming headless down a jeering sea;
bitter and groaning flails the nine tails.
let the undulating black mamba’s horizon be
so dyed in the mangled day’s turgid blood,
fret and wet under this frowning slated sky,
mount up in a tsunami bore, so that although,
i am transfused, I stand transfixed,
reiterating the eternal question why?
do i feel that i once stood wide-eyed 
in terror upon this very spot before?

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