New Time

I knew it was over,

but, still, I would cling,

in the wreckage of that great storm

to what little I had left,

scrambling,

-

feet soaked in my shoes,

home blown apart, limbs discarded

as though they were the wrong words,

-

my picket fence image

decapitated carelessly,

hacked apart,

the executioner hooded,

perhaps quietly happy.

-

Still, the black and the rain made way

at what seemed to be

the final second,

-

the timer,

frozen

-

and the hints of fury, of crimson

vengeance in the sky

suggested hope hidden

in a new day,

made opaque in a new time.