She adhered
to merciless missing
the way a drunk can’t shake
the innocent amber liquid
that burns going down
and swelters from the inside.
It was her secret,
the simple holding on;
such a tangible desire
that even a flicker of loss
would require an assault,
conflict of great magnitude.
A complex question, then,
woven like dreams of giving
clouds plus nervous-service:
What will the explosion be like
when opposite but equal forces
collide? Projected bombogenesis.
Fireblossom set the Toads loose with an A+ word list today, from which I believe I have managed to use seventeen in this little poem. I took liberties with the forms/tense of many of the words. Bombogenesis was not on the list, heh.
