Day 15

GRAVE LIGHTNING

Lightning claws out
of the black inevitability of night
like the twisted hands of the dead forking
for what is here and alive.

The thunder is no warning but a battle cry
as shoots of hands spawn into flailing arms
and here I am, a helpless plated morsel
with walls shaking like guts in turmoil.

Moments before there was nothing, just time as always
until the racketing dead kicked life
into a heaving panic-attack frenzy
like a shock to the chest
in a sterile hospital bed.

So the sky crumbles,
a grave ripped to shreds from the depths,
and only with each flashing hand and arm
does it all become clear, yet unknown
as the void between inhale and exhale.