90% Chance of Rain or Regeneration

Rain, rain, 90% chance; that’s a big chance to take without an anchor or a raft,

That meager chance that hooks its grapples into your soul and drags you under.

No rubber innertubes, no swimming for the shallow ropes, no wishing you were here.

A death grip holding to those stringy dreams, those butchered hopes.

I fought, hanging on with nail and tooth, bloody,

My feet tearing heel ruts in the silty muddy bottom-feeding swamp.

Obsessed while the hook bit into my throat,

Tearing out my soul through shredded remnants,

Wasting, wanting, wiping off the dirty brackish water,

Playing it big.

A slicing blow, and I was cut loose 

Nothing

A tugless war

I, self constructed, half made up, left tattered on a fertile field,
Tinged with elixir and pink,

Soaked with the waiting sun,
Tasting of honeysuckles.