Just Another Storm

Having chosen a plebeian life, I missed the muttering alleyways. I heard it all from insane poets tucked away in the cannibal asylum, stumbling upon a god like a drunken priest. And further back in time, among the dinosaurs of forgotten swamps, I found our jelly like ancestor nesting on a rotted hollow log. I warmed my hands on campfires, and I was not afraid. I learned of desire in auburn curls on summer nights beneath the universe, reflected below in a million fireflies disappearing in the burgundy velvet of a first kiss. Common men have their dreams, have their hearts broken by love and war, know the agony of abandonment, know the pain and fear of growing old, the world dissolving itself into a room. At a certain age, I suppose it varies, men feel they have seen it all, all but the final rattle of the serpent, the river of blood freezing like a snapshot. Then breath will be stillness, the hush that follows a season of storms.