Storm Clouds

In the jumbled backyard of mind they arrive in dark cowls, gather behind an inverse eye, wait there for the eyes themselves to flip those images over into a word chewing anger. Manikins move in those shadows, tussle in a muted violent parody of action and reaction. There is blood, it is dark, it is cloudy. War begins at the eyebrows, mittens fumble with small caliber ammo, deadly enough but not explosive, claws must grapple beyond the roar of the pulse. Suddenly you see her not in her fury but yours; storms subside into summer showers, a mock performance of Othello exits stage left, a shamefaced cast comically admitting the farce. "I am a fool and I don’t deserve you." Breast heaving, she turns away to repaint her emotions for a moment hating that she loves you, yet knowing she has won again another blindfolded battle.