The Thunderstorm That Never Came - April 18

I feel invincible in the worst of all possible ways:
I feel like I can see through the history of the world and give it back in mint condition:
Desperate scrapfighting and re-re-re-gurgitation,
Eventually the nutrients get chewed right out.

I feel vulnerable in the best of all possible ways:
I feel like I could tell you how tiny I feel and let your cold cruel laughter wash over me like hot sunshine reflecting mirages across a sandstorm.

I feel like a mother with her daughter at the beach,
When the tide is high,
Playing pitch and toss with her daughter,
Into the water:
Sink or swim.

I feel like a vagabond:
Tragic and sick and brilliant,
Dressed like a mime:
Striped nautical shirt,
Yellow suspenders,
Face painted reflecting death,
Through life,
Laughing in life, from within death,
Penniless,
In a thunderstorm:
Heaven's pouring water now washing the paint off his face,
Filling his mouth:
God brimming his belly in
Immaculate conception.

I feel a momentary drowning in everything I never had the courage to say:
Give me Freedom or give me Death.
I prefer the former, but...
You know, if it's not in the cards,
I live by the sword and I die by...
The pen?

The thunderstorm never came.
It swoll in, ran its fingers through all the leaves and flowers
now blooming on old branches,
It breathed the buildingtops in deep,
And wrapped everyone in shadows.
Then it moved north for some reason without ever once spitting down on this town.