The Storm

A ring, a reverberation, a vibration, a brash ration,

A racing rate of rain rallying, rambling, rumbling by my window;

Wind, winding up and releasing its realms of rafted wrangling glory;

Thunder, with Thanatos, thick in Icarus’ wings,

Breaking borrowed thought from ceaseless souls;

Lightning, light lining on the night sky,

Flying high, defying my mind’s eye,

Bringing beauty with malicious mortality.

And I stand safely inside, sorrowful as I stare

At a poor torn tree, its trunk ripped from its roots,

Lying, life dying, slowly seeping, as I keep weeping,

And the rain plainly pouring, swaying, swinging with the woeless wind.