Poetic Interlude: Buried in Thunder
I Hear distant whispers
and sighs.
Black lies.
Black skies
of high cloud cradle
ambient thunder.
The distant throb
of electric anger.
The sky is calling,
is falling.
Drifts down past
my wind-numbed ears,
my burning eyes.
These lies
assemble like soldiers,
shoot to kill.
But I am knee deep
in cumuli drift,
and buried in thunder.
© Ren Warom 2012
Beautiful Ren!
Thank you, Nina!
Man, that’s wicked good, Ren!!
Thanks, Joe!
Hello, Ren. *waves* I found this one spoke to me. You see, I’m one of those knuckle-heads who enjoys standing before a window in order to watch the special effects of a storm. We’re not supposed to do that because it’s too dangerous…but danger is our business, isn’t it?
If nothing else, I’ll see you Friday.
-Jimmy
Ah, nothing knuckle-headed about storm gazing. I am drawn to storms, I think most people are, they’re pure power, we can’t help but feel awed and humbled.
I know knowt ’bout poetiking, but that thar stormy warmy stuff done got me by the gizzards’n'stuff. ‘lectricty, see, it done sparked me right up.
