Black images stand starkly against the flash of lightning tonight. A brief photograph of a world separated by windows which allow cool air to flow amid humid stretches—a bursting, frantic flight of a remembered early spring. It traces with a whispered touch across the sweat patches that litter my body. Warmth emanates from me, this energy vortex I call a body, tantalizingly slow across the room.

If I could seep through the screen of my window, I would, and float lazily along with the bursting photons of the storm. Flashing ideas to bewildered souls peering out of their own confined spaces wondering if they'll ever find their way out; if maybe, tomorrow will be the day they open their minds a modicum more to  become enraptured with themselves—not just the storm.

But I can't seep…hell, I can't even sleep. Instead I'll sit and absorb, becoming one with the dust, opening my mouth to breathe but letting my mind do the shouting. And I'll keep sending thoughts to the skies disguised like crackles of thunder, because like waves of lightning, we start at the ground and work our way up—brightness above.

So, for the moment, shield your eyes, lower your head and hunch your shoulders. You are not ready. One day I'll explain—one day you'll find your own truth, but you will be dazzled gradually. For I am someone who can read the spots in their eyes while grinning at the beauty, turn a torrent into poetry, and capture thunder in my mind.

Eventually you'll open your eyes and laugh with joy at the sight.

But for now the storm is mine.