Distant Thunder at 4am

Holy these pages penned in her own hand
months earlier than when she reached the age
at which I now first stretch to fit her form

best as I can! Each accident gets planned
to fit its form, after all, each poem its page,
each deviation fit its random norm.

I’m to take after her? I’m to bleed her blood
drenching my words red as hers? I’m to rage
voices bent on voices, her lethal swarm?

Come then. Drown me in her furious flood,
                         most sacred storm!

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by alicia with a major assist by maggie