Strike

Winter’s left me dry,
yet I find
this electricity
irresistible.

You flash down
like lightning,
without warning
or intention of harm.

All my reason
is burned up to ashes.
But still,
I search the sky —

not for a sun
to break the gray,
but for another
banking cloud.

You’ve stricken me
well and true,
and still, I’m on my knees,
begging for more.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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