Coming Storm

Sad to say,
But that sole sharp edge of your double standard sword
Got in the way.
Rather than find a worthy tree for us to chop together,
You flipped it over and assaulted me
In your time of foul weather –
As if that would build the house that would shelter us from the storm.

But maybe you don’t want to be warm.

Maybe the bitter sting of long burning tears and all too real jeers
Leave you content to stand in the cold,
screaming against the temperature.

Meanwhile, we’re both freezing.
Stripped long ago of innocent notions never come to fruition,
we stand here in the skin we came in.
I’d get dressed,
but in the backpack packed tight with the horrendous experiences of your years,
The only warm clothing are the coats of the abominable forefathers

that I fear,
So size me up and fit them to me if you wish,
But I can’t shoulder their history any more
Than I can wish myself out of pain
or single-handedly mold a solution for all of us out of this sick hurricane.
And the clouds are getting worse,
Threatening to blow us all up up and away
If we can’t find a way to live to agree another day.

In the end,
We can’t make only one sound to hear,
Or one person to be,
Or the same exact sight to see,
But the storm is here and
You and I?
If we want to survive?
We need to trade in our swords for a hatchet we can bury,
And start looking for the same tree.