The Storm.

Another relic of my own bygone age: written 1988.

The Storm.

There! There!
A flash almost too bright,
A gods hammer fractures the night.
And Fathers eyes alive,
As echos resound.

Outside we go,
Into rain like stair rods,
And Myolnir falls again,
And again,
And again.

Others run for cover
Whilst we stand laughing
In the heart of a tempest.
Faces upturned into the rain.
My arms outstretched
Welcoming forces into my heart.
That might squash me like an ant.
While the downpoor soaks our clothes,
Our hearts,
Our Skins,
Our Souls.
Down deeper,
Deeper,
To some unfathomed place.
Where mere words,
Cannot hope to reach.

I feel raised up,
Up into the storm,
The sorcerer and his apprentice,
Weilding and welded by nature's might.
By forces beyond the ken,
Of mortals,
Who cower
behind fragile beds.

The storm,
It's power,
It's fury,
It's passion
Belonged to me.

When father left
This Earth for other lands.
He left no great estates,
No boundless fortune,
No vast empire,
Flourished in his wake.

But as the demigod,
Of a child's young life,
He gave to me,

The Storm.

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