26 Oct 2016

A morning dressed in milky pastels and butter scotch cream, the unwrinkled silk of the soundless sky, every leaf still, smiling, butterflies in pairs, fluttering in slow motion, in coordinated iridescence, grass humming Brahms under its breath… Marcus, such a morning would be almost unbearable.

Some would liken its perfection to love.

Only if they haven’t felt the blistering chaos of a thunderstorm, the monsoon flashing, breaking against the waiting hills, the exquisite agony of parched earth as the deluge descends, life shuddering below, its baked heart finding a beat again. Love is not a peaceful lake etched into the curved hip of the land. Love should be selfish, it should be biased, it has to be argument, it has to be passion, it has to be a million unreasonable questions, rippling contradictions, a maelstrom instead of a patterned drizzle.

The worst, the best of storms, still pass into the lightening quiet.

Isn’t that why they are so beautiful, so alive while they last?

the higher Icarus rose
the faster his wings melted
for a while, the sky held him