I once grew fond of a lightning bolt,
My glee as loud as the storm,
In tens volume it strikes and halts,
My feet felt light as if in foam.
The first sight was a festive night,
Clouds clad like a child's misty eyes,
Downpour and more, and more shine,
The sparks got lost, into my mind.
Another day, another storm,
Literal let-loose upon liquor,
Sparks recoiled off my form,
Voices once vast, now low flutter.
Next fine day, those eyes again,
Then those sparks hit me in pain,
The same ones that struck twice,
For creation, and been, ever since.
In the dew drops of my lawn blades,
Are reminders to a pending list,
A list of many effortless accolades,
Ah remind us of the chaotic gist.
Today now, Sun has grown old,
Festive nights are now stories told,
Drunk lets loose: the secret unfold,
Everything has gone dark manifold.
That's when I grew fonder still,
Of a lightning bolt, of the storm,
A microsecond of clearer will,
I'm only fond, I can't take it home.
