All I can hear is static
and yet I hear much more...

I hear a voice crying from over the toil and the screaming
of the gray madness that rolls and undulates at my feet.

The storm is coming.

As the wind tosses my hair, impervious to the time I have spent on it,
my very soul emanates from my body and wisps into the air above.

Spiraling around the lighthouse, the light flickering haphazardly,
peeking around the rusty old alarm bell,
it curiously explores
in a time more dangerous than any other it has ever known.

The storm is coming.

The fronds of nearby peasants bow to the gale, afraid,
and their hearts are torn apart by flying shine
that infiltrate even the most secure houses
and happy hearts.

His motorcycle lies on the shoulder of the abandoned beach road,
the left headlight still on,
but he is still
missing.

From the world, from his bike.
From me.

The storm is coming.

Standing upon this rocky throne admist the rain and the thunder,
I feel more alive
than every before.

------
The electricity hits.
-----

It courses through me like a wave of silk,
catching on my edges and riding me like a wave.
My heart lifts, my eyes upend to the skies...

He is here.
Shouts.
Running, slipping, dragging feet.

The storm is here.