Red River Rising

I swallowed your essence as it slithered across the ground. Blooming wild in the hot rain, it coats the skin of this sad, sympathetic body in the singing of a tempest.
I'm used to thunder, though.
At night, the soft clouds would graze the spindled branches of the trees, seeping through the pale membranes surrounding the bark as if to break and spread the famine into the roots. Let’s eat away this soil, choking back the damp flesh of those who no longer carry flowers blooming across their skin and in their hair.
I don’t know where I’m going, though, as I sleep within the river, mud sucking me down in the form of passionate rape, damned embrace, and thunder as it cracks and booms above my head in victory. Your victory, as you crow overhead while I drink your heavenly poison, all-embracing as the iron silk strips my heart bare and squeezes, echoing wild agony to match the lightning careening across the dimness.
You’re not listening to the storm, though, as it rides across the sky, boiling purple, red, blue, and madness with struck lightning that scorches the earth, kisses the sun, and boils my heart whole in the grand soup pot that you claim to feed this earth with. A thick soup, a dark soup, filled with enough debris to build a drowning man a raft.
We’re still stuck in the river of your laughter, no roots to cling to. And I wonder, how you can be so blind as to not see the frogs as they struggle on the banks before the current floods them all away? But then, I never claimed that God was terribly observant.