It Came Down a Mountain.

It Came Down a Mountain.

Thunderous and wild,
it came down a mountain:
the one we visited each year.
Hoping to recluse our duties.

Famous and wreckless,
it came down towards me,
it's decline- it's fall,
barreling down like the Niagara.

Steadfast and brave
it blew right past me,
picking me up,
in it's frozen arms.

It came down a mountain,
swift and blurred,
burning cold to my eyes.
How it blindsided me that day?

It took me
under it's folds,
like a blanket
suffocating- strong.
What was under,
held me longer,
and tighter,
than you ever have.

Weak and destroyed,
I climbed out of it's wake,
waking,
knowing the deed had been done.

Tired and frail,
I knocked on our door,
it opened,
on the first rap.

Limp and sleeping,
you sat
in front of our fire.
The embers almost to ash.

Sullen and quiet,
I take from your lap,
the bottle;
its contents you drank to forget.

And you stir,
and you waken,
and you've been watching
all night:
knowing what comes down the mountain.
Knowing that it moves
fast on the breeze
and it'll break you onto your knees.

Crying and clinging,
your salt tears on my legs.
I can't feel them
through all of these clothes.

I bend down,
and we struggle,
and your nails dig right in,
though, only words you use.
And I try to change things,
by clutching your pants- pulling down:
the way these struggles
used to be.

It came down a mountain,
now "it" becomes "you",
and instead of taking
it leaves me beneath: cold.

-Matthew Koutzun