The Storm

Shake, strain, scream,
send the vowels
of your own
incomprehension
to bounce off the roof
and fuel the ascension
as the pressure
gains marvellous momentum
and the storm is coming
to shatter
your last sense of self,
to obliterate tension,
make you shoot
like a star
through a
suspension
redemption
dimension
so clear
and so conscious
it could burn
your synapses
and stop that
tick tick tick
of the pulse below pulse
telling your heart
to beat
in that seemingly
eternal but still
countable rhythm
of rushing
red hot magma
through your body
under my weight,
through your limbs
wrapped around me,
through your mind
locked to mine
by proxy of
tongues, lips, skin,
spice, salt and a part of me
so deep inside that
dark, warm welcoming
that it has forgotten
if it's me
or if it's you,
and when the storm arrives
it will make you
bury your face in my skin
like you bury my ego
in your eyes
and swallow me so deep
that any distinction
between where I end
and you begin
will disappear
and together as one
we will be
selfless,
mindless,
genderless,
and we will know
nothing outside the
union that are us,
and that raging storm.