The Storm

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The Storm

Roiling clouds obliterate starlight

and darkness settles in like an ancient creature,

thick shadow limbs stretching out

beneath the trees, where deer, lizards, and spiders

take shelter together against the rain.

Out on the porch, my hair tangles

as it beats about my head in wind set free.

Drafts run rampant, knock leaves from their branches,

play peekaboo with my nightgown hem.

Rain plummets, churning the yard

into soup, a great mass of mud

from which earth worms emerge

to inch their way in the wet to new homes.

It would be true night, black as pitch,

if not for the constant electric glow

of humanity's combat against the void,

the absence of what is known that crouches

in the cool, conspiring dark. Thunder

drums my chest and rattles the windows,

then the sky is ripped in two by the perfect

zig-zag of neon light, so bright it hurts my eyes,

so close the hair stands rigid on my arms,

Zeus reminding us how insignificant

are our technological accoutrements. Humbled,

I take the hint and retreat inside

to huddle and hide under blankets.


Note: This poem was written in response to the prompt, "The story of a Black Sky," from @Ferretlp. I don't know if this is what you were hoping for, but it's what came out.

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