Your Personal Storm

A storm awaits each one of us:

Custom made,
Bowled toward
The center of our being
In wicked, unjust gyration,

A thing made to unmake.

(Forget those who say
Storms
Settle reckonings
With sinners:
Such formulas
Are the stuff of soap opera,
With the Divine
In need of a script doctor.)

The combustible
Elixir of opposites
Is the very stuff of life --
And of its soulmate,
Death --
Twins spawned in the
Spinning
Blast that made,
And will unmake.

The storm
Is made for us
Because it is made
Of us:

The very heat
And moisture
In which
Our minds reside

Brews in the ocean:
Recognition of our frailty
Is forced upon us:
Our mind
Is,
Literally,
Blown.

Not a lesson,
Not a verdict,
But a harbinger:

We are always
Dancing
With the
Quick
And the
Cataclysmic:

It's what we are.

Light your way
With the "brief candle":
Its twin will consume you,
But with life's arrowed flame
You will be warmed
And allowed to see,
Even to your
Very
Personal
End.

--Mr. Gobley