Haggard heavens,
pale white in their dormancy,
weary wind,
sweeping through the trees,
sleeping sun,
warm in her blanket of clouds.

Over the waiting earth,
the storm watches with a single eye,
a cold Cyclops.

Dank darkness,
bathes the waiting world,
the still static of cheap radios,
adds to the deafening silence,
short candles sit, covered,
in their own hot wax.

At the end
of their
dormancy,
the heavens shriek, their sharp tears,
tearing through the air, clashing with the ground,
cold bullets shooting the world,
white flashes
jagged white swords slashing through the horizon,
stabbing the wet earth,
the heavens groan,
sonorous rumbles,
as if they’re stabbing themselves.

Howling screams of vicious gale,
as it tears the world apart,
ripping through trees,crashing them to the ground,
flinging the world around in whirling anger.

The world sits, huddled
whispered prayers fighting through the air
to reach the heavens
and pass the storm along the way.

Now
finally
satisfied,
the cyclops moves on
a warrior wandering to
his next country
still strong
with its pale skin,
bleeding rain to wash away
the remaining carcasses