A storm brewing at the back of my head.
Moving towards my temple region.
A forecast of words to come.

Ideas, as clouds, forming in my mind.
Thunder strikes, a bulb lights up.
Words come pouring after.

As the land of script, the words
touch. Influenced by the winds
of doubt, they may stray off path.

*Here I am, waiting
for the storm, thunder roars but
no words.