It's Still Life

The Storm

Every time the wind
chatters through the fence,
voices mutter in the roof tiles.
It’s the whim of sky.

Its grip and shine
of sulking rain are scented by
far off dry grass. And then
that moment that vibrates

ones bones, incandescent
lightning, and basso-pitched
thunder as if heaven rolled over.
So dark, so fluid it fills my ears,

and I think, I need a fairytale
to write myself out of this.

©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter. And here’s a little music for you to blow the clouds out of your head.