I always wondered why, when we were younger, my little brother was so afraid of storms. To me they seemed not only completely harmless, but just about as beautiful and glorious as anything could possibly be. Since then, I've sent the credit for this phenomenon straight to my dad, who, when I was only 3 or 4 years old, took me out on the screened-in porch off of our house every time there was a storm so that we could just watch and listen. It was on a similar occasion that I wrote this poem, which is I guess just a commemoration of those stormy nights of my childhood, but also a wish for the future and a cry for freedom of spirit.
The sky throbs,
an open, bleeding wound
split hastily by lightning
that flashes brightly amid the gray.
The world rumbles, tumbles,
black clouds long since invaded
the crystalline blue.
Countless perfect droplets,
round and full,
hammer the ground in outrageous fury.
What angered them so?
The meek and mild run away,
seeking shelter and safety,
but not you and I.
The lightning begs,
the thunder's beckoning call
draws us further from their light,
closer to ours.
Hands clasped together
fearing nothing but fear,
dancing, twirling, spinning,
Our Kingdom has Come.
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