A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Bolt from the blue
strikes without warning,
jolts me from reveries,
is gone —
if you blinked you missed it —
but I still burn, charred
where high voltage coursed through thought,
and even you hear the single whip crack
of thunder; yet only tears make rain here.
Flash flood of unenviable envy
disgusts me
then leaves silty efflorescence,
a scar of proof
lest I deny even the fleeting existence
of shocking thoughts — abhorrent lack 
of gratitude for survival
and instead perilous resentment
of those whose darker fate
excuses them from the clean up effort.
Tomorrow, perhaps, 
I’ll bask again in sunlight, 
but tonight no flood can purge this bitter taste.