Deluge

Deluge

I saw the storm a'coming, whipping wind and dust did blow.

So I fashioned up a hatchet, made my way to stream below.

Hacked down the willow saplings, just enough to do the job.

Through the trees, I heard a howling, slowly turned to sullen sob.

And with all the best intentions, a shelter I did build.

Wrought for my self-survival, to direct this primal will.

So I draped around bowed form, many thick and sacred hides.

Weighted down by humming stones, with no space and no divide.

With the structure thought secured, I did make my way within.

Did I even once observe that night, my own destructive sin?

As storm did come and lightning cracked, I weathered through it all.

A prison built to hide myself; through deluge I heard a call.

Then that massive gale pushed, and my supports, they did collapse.

Wood did pierce and stones did crush and skin did smother fast.

Hours did crawl by as I struggled for some air.

My blood was mixing with the earth--what visual despair.

And soon I saw it futile, facing eyes up toward the sky.

I gave myself—surrendered—without asking how or why.

My heart took hold, dynamic shift; and rains did then relent.

Just like skin and bone upon myself; the ego, it was rent.

Sun did show to dry the hides, lifted weight by bringing light.

My self-created ruin, now left behind and out of sight.

These new lesions—my salvation—were hardly evident.

All I saw were puncture wounds where willow limbs once went.

And as I grew much older, stepping back to view the whole,
The scars did form the constellation of my very soul.