It's Still Life

Riding the Storm

Storm drags the swamp,
but that man won’t run.
Barefoot in mud,
and he glares at the sky
like it owes him something.

Cypress leaning close,
gossiping in the shadows —
thunder shakes whiskey
straight down his bones.

There’s storm in his blood,
hurricane in his breath —
he was born to howl
deep against the dark.

And when the sky splits,
when the wind claws through,
he just grins —
a swamp-man’s vow
tastes like iron and rain.