Split Pea Soup

Heat from infected, pus filled, emotional lacerations…clashing wildly with the chill that seeps from my broken heart; there lies the fountainhead of my psychological meteorology, a torment wild

Beneath the cover of my book there’s a rancid churning

Gales created by incompatibility; two air masses, one hot, another substantially cooler… perhaps that’s my dilemma

I suspect in the bowels of my busted gut, blow a wind, deafening and icy

Looking over my shoulder, to see who is checking up, the wind becomes especially deafening

Like the man spinning plates, I’m constantly busy, comparing myself with others; always I come up short, never measuring up

And never letting up, the Nor’easters cease not…

Brief distraction, momentarily soothed by the long tail, of a slippery, venomous dragon, only then does my ocean glass off