Anticlimax

Anticlimax

When the snow ceases,
it’s still hard to see.
This may just be my eyes,
or the pain my heart decries,

but the blowing blizzard still rains
on my dark and dampened goal.
Like the dark is flooding light
on the way we feel and fight.

When the flood recedes,
I can still smell the recent rain.
This may all be in my head,
or just the rotting dead,

but the mold on the wall remains,
though we’ve scrubbed it as a goal.
See the molding of our values,
swept away by shared abuse?

When the dust settles,
it’s still hard to breath.
This may all be in my mind,
or just the dust aligned,

but the clear air doesn’t begin
to honor the accomplished goal.
Well, the building may be done,
but rest has just begun.