Free Form Writing - A Poem: THE STORM (July 20, 2017)

THE STORM

By Autumn Boyet Stinton – July 20, 2017

The storm clouds outside reflect the storm brewing in my soul. 

My steely cold frustration with narcissistic turbulence collides with the heat of anger and produces a head of thunder, lightning and rage that will not be contained. 

Negative energy feeds upon itself growing to critical mass, destined to explode and rain down agony upon me and all around me. 

Emotions swirl and the outflow of grit and dirt blast away protection leaving each nerve exposed and feeling raw. 

My stomach pitches as the thunder begins to rumble and roll, unleashing a warning chorus of impending danger.  “Run away,” it admonishes.  “Take cover,” it warns. 

The air is electrified with sizzling energy that seeks to lash out and plunge its wrath into whatever may quench its thirst.

As if to give credence to the warning rumble of the thunder built from angst, the full intensity of the storm bursts forth as lightning flashes and echoes the sharp screams of hatred that burn my lungs.

There is no containing the flash, nor the intensity of the burn that slices through the air, heavy with moisture and fear waiting to be unleashed in a deluge that will drown and kill or wash clean and purify. 

As certain as the impending doom is the uncertainty of the outcome. 

The storm has all but exhausted its power in the building to the crescendo. 

It is uncertain in that instant if it will lose momentum and produce nothing more than blustery warning, or if it burst forth with rage and ravish what stands around and before it. 

But the intensity of this storm has no intention of conceding defeat. 

And so, it claws its way forward, out of the bowels and dark corners of my soul to spring forth devastation and unrelenting havoc. 

As if a dam has suddenly dissolved, water becomes a weapon as it is hurled with force, streaming down my face to impact the ground. 

Life sustaining moisture has turned its back on the dry crust desperate for relief. 

It has foregone its names of shower, moisture and precipitation and has taken up armor to wage war as deluge, flood and torrent. 

Each drop of water becomes one of many knife blades that will slice through the air and my breath, collide with the ground and my skin and consume what stands before me. 

There will be no relief from this storm. 

This storm’s destiny is to unleash its fury and pent up anger and destroy. 

There is no doubt as to the course it clawed forward along or the path of destruction that was called forth and uncontained in my anger. 

The storm was inevitable, and the aftermath certain.