It's Still Life

A Passing Storm

Wild, breathless, untamed.

Lightning is a beast
torn loose from sky,
its white-hot snarl
splitting the night
wide open.

She steps into it.
Laughing. Almost —
as rain claws at skin,
as wind pulls at her
like something that
recognises
its own.

Reclaims.

The earth trembles,
and so does she.

This is the moment
she was made for.

Raw, electric, untranslated.

And when thunder roars,
rolling its great chest
across the heavens,
she answers.
In breath.

Her bones remember.

If she were an artist,
the canvas would remember
this wildness.

But she is not.
And it will not.

---

Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.