The sky is dark,
not pitch black but a deep
and dangerous blue.
Dark enough to hide the stars
but not enough to hide the clouds
looming above me.

My heavy boots thud
against the sidewalk
and they thud harder when
I walk against the howling wind.

I feel it blowing through my sweater
and chilling my bones as
bare-bones tree branches wave
above my head.

The darkness wind and chill
all point to the end times,
where green grass will never return
and the sun will never again
show its bright face.

Nights like this
are a spiritual experience.
The air speaks to me
in ways the sunlight never can.

I feel the apocalypse every time it storms.