When the storm abates
Not a single trace
Remains of its lashing
Upon the senses,
Or the dredged up drowned
Tatters of a conscience
That was peppered
By the relentless sting of doubt.

The calm peaks through the gloom
Into the unassuming eye
And hypnotises.
Wiped clear are thunderous
Clouds, all grey with self loathing,
Deprecating droves of icy
Words that circled tornado-like
In the torrential downpour of your world
As it crashed round your feet
Its smytherins the pieces
You used to open old wounds
And soothe the ache within.
Gone are those tell-tale tracks
Upon the arm, upon the heart
The route to all your evils.

Because the sun is out
And clear skies mark the mind
In shades of sweetest blue
All calm and cool in the aftermath
Where nothing is all that bad,
And you cant be sure
There ever was a storm.