Guilty Air

It's all over,
it's everywhere,
the pain and suffering,
the guilty air,
the whiff of regret,
the stench of failure,
the sickening game
won by a sick player.

It's ending now
and just beginning,
the winner ending
without a winning,
the loser losing
for being there
and both screaming
how it isn't fair.

The reeking of it,
of the play chosen
leaves all paralyzed,
involuntarily frozen,
with no movements
able to be made
with the game already
done being played.

Remnants of,
proof remaining
of the sucking of life,
the complete draining
are all that's left,
all that's there
in a time and place
where someone should have cared.

The Storm

On and off again,
the rainstorm so intense,
the passion of her flood
so powerful and immense,
she cries for her suffering
to be shared by all
in the giant drops of agony
to connect in its fall.
The scattered storms
are never known for sure
when they will come
banging on the door
with howls and whistles of
the wind that occasionally accompanies
and basks in the same glory
of the same brutal furies.
When the storm disappears
the skies clear to beauty
like never before dreamed
yet with that feeling so quickly fleeting
to make way for the ultimate
storm that will be told of
as fable and myth for generations,
the storm that took and tore from bottom above.
She bears down without warning
and crashes, demolishes without hesitation,
no regret in her actions to the people,
no second chances given to the nation,
but rather her eternal wrath to be spread
to those she deems deserving
as she holds none of it back,
needing nothing left for reserving.
Instead she simply crushes
the ones below her reign
and leaves the corpses lay
in the ashes of their final felt pain.