Three-Hundred-Thirty-One Days

The building pressure along several faults finally forced the slip.
Ravines split pale earth wide open;
vermillion rivers rushed forth from each canyon,
converged,
flowed downstream with the pull of gravity.

As one large mass,
it slowed.
Akin to jelly,
it crawled to the ocean.
Eventually,
it dumped into the ocean,
dispersed,
immediately followed by the aftermath of the secondary and tertiary waves of destruction.

When the ground stilled and the dust had settled,
the stains of the disaster were slowly washed away with the rain.
The cracks in the ground filled with the crimson goo unable to escape,
now solid,
forever more scaring the soil.

Three-hundred-thirty-one days.
The last round of earthquakes had stopped.
The pressures of the plates had eased,
but built again.

Three-hundred-thirty-one days.
New craters to heal,
lighten,
fade from the landscape.

Three-hundred-thirty-one days.
Only thirty-four days shy of one year earthquake-free.
Three times prior,
they’d returned.

Only thirty-four days shy of one year.
No warning.
The faults just slipped.

Only thirty-four days shy of one year.
Again,
dealing with the aftermath.

Only thirty-four days shy of one year.
Why did the earthquakes always return?

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I Always Learn the Hard Way

I always learn easy lessons the hard way.
Genetic flaw, it’s been said.
Not untrue, I suppose.
Take a look at both sides—mother and father.
I… just learned much faster than my mother this time.

“I promise you, things will change.”
Ignorant, youthful hope.
Blind, unyielding faith.
Socialized, cult mentality idolization.
Call it what you like.
But through the eyes of an eight-year-old,
it was simply the yearning for the same father that every other kid had.
Regardless of which option you choose,
Hindsight is always 20/20.

I expected so much more.

The blazing mid-year months just after navy blue caps and gowns.
Another whirlwind of corrosive words; I spat my fair share.
World War… V, now?
The Non-Aggression Pact has been drawn.
Both Allied and Axis powers, each only one country strong, sit with the mediator.
She is silent.

“You never said anything.”
The Axis took on a gentle tone.
The Allied power was lulled into a false belief of fault.

“You’re right; I’ll try harder.”
The Axis claims victory;
A replication of World War III.

“We’ll both try harder.”
An illusion of concession.
The Axis power is cunning.
And though my obedient mind is nearly free from its collar,
I, again, find light where it has long faded away.

I still expected so much more.

Desperation.
Fear.
Disorientation.
Clumsy fingers fumbling, fighting, to spit jumbled masses of text.
Hands tremble and fold.
The mind’s eye falls blind.
The weakened arms of cognition fall just short of the words they seek.

‘Phone call…’

No hesitation… no where else to turn.
The Allied Power seeks out the Axis.
The lips mimic the fingers—fumbling to spit jumbled, broken thoughts.
The Axis responds the same.
The words of the Allies fall on deaf ears.

World War VII, worse than World War VI.
No mediator, however;
The Allied power has grown
While the Axis has remained the same.
They now stand on equal ground.

Stalemate
.

You did not change.
You have not changed.
You never will change.

I should have learned long ago not to expect much more.