Every wail of wind
Is a mournful dirge
Carrying off through the distance
Where tenebrous finger like branches sway,
And the moist air feels like a tearful eye.
The pale light wonโt shine,
She hides her face in a cacophony of smoke and mirrors,
A majesty so shy she turns her back
As the wolves cry for her in loving sonnets.
Deeper is the black that darks the skies,
As veins of electric light quickly strobe the clouds,
Thereโs a crack of a cackling giant,
And the tears fall from angels,
As a strident breeze breathes across the landscape
As the trees mosh in syncopated patternsโ
I calmly wait in the midst of storms.
Who doesnโt love a thunderstorm, even if itโs internally?
