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The Poet's Storm
There is a storm arriving soon.
I can feel the wind carress my pale skin.
I can see the wind carelessly blow on the rose bushes;
By morning, their soft, velvety petals will no longer exsist.
there is a storm coming soon.
I can see the coldness; how it acts upon the crimson roses as they transform into maroon.
I can see the wind snap the twigs, the braches, from a near by willow tree.
By morning, their rigidy touch will lie above the grass.
there is a storm arriving very soon.
I can hear the birds chirp, as they begin to find somewhere warm.
I can hear the windchimes whistle, as they begin to make sound.
By morning, their silvery form will be lying on the ground.
There is a storm that has begun.
I can feel the air now begin to sharpen,
prickling my pale skin from exciting coldness.
I can hear the rain begin to pour; Making its way through wet clouds,
tinkering on Earths torso.
there is a storm that has begun.
I can see the gray clouds that were once pearly white.
I can smell the wet dirt
as it begins to form into mud.
there is a storm that has begun.
I can hear the thunder as it roars accross the sky;
filling my eardrums with the sound of the sound of the crashing waves of an ocean.
I can hear the rain as it begins to carelessly blow on the roof tiles.
By morning, a tile will be a'miss.
The storm is raging on.
I can see the beautiful flash of lightning; its radiant colour,
sparking of desire as it siginals the sign of thunder.
I can hear the wind begin to silence, the rain begin to cease.
Suddenly, out of the sky, erupts the aceldama of the worlds
core begin to spark and shatter.
the storm is raging on.
I can feel my minds' body begin to shake
as the thunder continues to roar.
All of a sudden, I her a massive Boom.
I see the hail begin to fall, pounding on the glass of a window,
causing it to shatter and send shards to the cement.
the storm is raging on.
I can feel the wind as it rips through my skin,
causing me to shiver of excitement and coldness.
I can see the flash of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder,
as they escape from the vorpal sky and strike a blossom tree
that levels it with the rose bushes.
There is a sound of pure silence,
and the final pour of rain.
The storm has vanished.
I can hear the sound of the chirping birds as they
escape from their shelter.
I can see the sun; brighter than white, but darker than yellow;
shine rays of light through transparent ash clouds.
Creating a rainbow of:
Blue Sadness
Yellow Joy
Pink Longing
Red Deception
Purple Fear
Orange Passion,
and
Green Compassion
A storm is the A beautiful sight the eyes may see.
But it is also the most depressing.
That is why, at the end of any storm, lies an arc of beautiful colours
to tell us that there is always a dash of happiness in sadness.
Published 13th Apr 2012
| Edited 29th Sep 2016
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