ShannonThomas.Org

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He sat around her,
clung to her with lonely desperation.
She huddled deeper into his arms and legs
and pressed against his body.
He was her shield against the world.
She was his savior from himself.
The chill wind flung their hair
into impossible puzzle-tangles.
He shuddered
with her shivers.
She breathed
his breath.
God painted
the sky with water colors.

Rains poured down,
blurred the line between dark granite
and brooding horizon.

She needed him
while sky hammered earth,
but the lashing torrents had to end sometime.
Was her trembling all that shook his body?
Was the rain all that flooded his features
before he pulled her even closer
and buried his face in her hair?
He never told, and
she never knew,
while rain battered their flesh
and winter winds brushed
the pastel sky painted by God.

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See me here, a silhouette clad in
old grief and pessimisms
like blackened steel armor
barbed with cynical razors.
Behold me and you will know:
to touch me is to bleed.
Unstoppable and immovable;
hollow and terrible –
more a shadow than a man –
I was not always so.

Once I beheld a goddess in all her glory.
I did not know my heart still lived
within my chest until she
commanded it to beat.
Her memory whispers still,
Redemption is ever at hand.
Love and light are all around,
if you will only come out of
yourself to see.

She is the evening star,
too bright for me to hold.
With a mere glance or word she
might burn my wings to ash,
and I have no wish to play
Icarus again. The fall is too far.

I soar higher nonetheless,
Eyes upturned, arms outstretched.

When I plummet to earth,
flaring brighter and hotter
than even Lucifer blazed,
when I slam headlong into
solid rock bottom for the final
time, how silly and worthless
my fancy dark armor will be.

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Winter is coming, so the Winds say,
as they whisper out of a Sky of fading blue.
i kiss a Leaf now at the end of the Day,
and close my eyes to remember you.

the Sun drags low in the sky, bleeding
its hues of gold and red across the Clouds.
an aching place in my heart is needing
you. into the Night i speak your Name aloud,

as if it were a charm or chant or spell
that could summon you to this place.
in its sound, as i whisper it, i can still smell
your Hair; in its tune i can still see your Face.

while we breathe, these words have no end.
while we live, our bond will never die .
i’ll wait here for your Kiss on the Wind,
alone and cold under this autumn Sky.

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I was fourteen when I asked Dad about his beard.
I wanted to know why it was already so grey.
He said, “I have one for every worry, hurt, and fear.
Listen a minute, and I’ll tell you how it got this way:

“I spent two years killing gooks for Lyndon.
The shrink said I was sane, according to the law.
The priest said not to worry, that I was forgiven,
but they never did what I did or saw what I saw.

Your mom kept me sober when she could,
but I don’t remember the 70’s very well.
I fought and drank and was just no good.
It didn’t matter; I’d already been to hell.

“I stopped drinking in 1980, sat down and cried
when Led Zeppelin buried Bonham and disbanded.
In ‘81 I nearly smiled when the Liar nearly died,
but he lived, and they had Hinckley red-handed.

In ’82 the Feds immortalized my fears
with a shiny long wall in Washington D.C.
I had flashbacks and nightmares for over a year,
until well after we took Grenada in ’83.

“Union Carbide killed thousands of Indians in ‘84
while vats of the same poison sat 200 miles from us.
In ’85 the Cola I loved changed forevermore.
I switched to coffee rather than drink that puss.

I’ve gotten plenty of grey hairs, and quite a few
whites, thanks to you and your three brothers.
Your mom has her name on plenty of them too,
but I don’t mind any of them like I do the others.

“And there’s been more reasons for these hairs, boy.
You’ll never know all the things your daddy’s done,
but I’ve fought hard to win every moment of joy.
The scars and grey hairs have just piled up one by one.

Some day you’ll step back and ponder
on how surviving got in the way of living.
You’ll look around, and you’ll wonder
at all the sweat and time you’re giving.”

Dad paused and stared at his miner’s belt.
He looked at me, and then at his hands.
I asked him then what he thought, what he felt.
He said, “Some day you’ll understand.

There are terrible dragons in this world, son,
and no matter how you try, they can’t be beaten.
Be smarter than me. Learn to ride them. Hold on
for dear life and do your best not to get eaten.”

That day I was too young and too dumb to listen or care,
but now I think back often to that day and what he said
when I look at my reflection at night and count the grey hairs
that pile up way too early all over my head.

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Michael looked into Ruth’s
dark, soulful eyes
and almost regained
faith in Jesus.
he wanted her,
deserved her,
but didn’t know how to ask.

Reznor sang,
“my whole existence is flawed.”

she danced with her man,
Michael’s brother,
an oxygen thief.
stupid. fragile. soft.
Unworthy.

their bodies melded,
welded as they
gyrated to primal rock.
naked feet stomped
tongue-and-groove oak
in time to the beat.
her ass ground his crotch.
his hands clutched her hips.

Reznor screamed,
“you get me closer to God.”

Michael left the party,
joined Solitude and Darkness
in the november night.
no coat, no shirt, no peace.
the Moon transmuted
snow and ice into ivory fire.

no shadow dared conceal
Hell’s lust in his eyes.
steam rolled like smoke
off his shoulders and neck
as he strode up the mountain.

not caring that his inner
demon had manifested,
he walked the ten miles home,
each step a contemplation
of Cain’s fury and sin.

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