Whatever happened to good old-fashioned
thunderbolts — those lightning strikes from heaven
drawn from synchronicity, impassioned
by some sudden morethanjust erection?
Self-obsession, shunning incandescence,
fear of being swallowed up in ego
death (returning to the gleam of essence),
we seek placebos — ersatz libeedo.
Thus, though one may fake a weak explosion
or feign one loves to travel to the moon,
I declare those ‘bombshells’ an illusion.
We’re dancing to a very different tune.
So now I just continue on the trail.
Instead of thunderbolts: a nightingale.
© Alan Morrison, 2015