Storm front

 

Nor did I chase

the storms, even as 

they came for me, that way

Did not run

for shelter stops

Nothing

we wed in between

such pouring days

as if a window

Opened

to a raw and fresh world

Where death and birth

dwell in unison

A reddened dawn 

bled deep

into horizon lines, gashes,

words of warning defined

Old

wives tales,

words of prophecy

fairies and fantasies,

Or metaphor

like We could be

Happy, sirens.

Thoughts as thick as 

Mammatus

dissipate for clearer 

skies shall 

Pass

Blinding truths

anyway...

For now 

I stay shuddered

while wet and wiser

atmospherically.

 

Painting by Hart, James McDougal, 1828-1901  (artist); 'The Storm is Coming' L. Prang & Co. (publisher), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.