Thunderstorm

Boom.

Two inches behind my back, tiny missiles are trying to pierce through a delicate pane of glass.

I am oddly placated by this fusillade, the pounding behind me.

My shoulders tremble with each new wave, as if they’re piercing my spine.

But I am at peace, relaxed, poetic right now, despite the violent protestations of Nature.

The harsh severity of the outside is more apparent to me now than ever before

The bullets continue hammering, beating down on me, everywhere.

Is it wrong to find such tranquility among such unrest?

Never mind.

Now comes a lull, the pattering far gentler

A rhythmic insistence now almost drowned out by my mental circumlocution.

Mere sparks tinkle where bombardment had echoed

And then

Silence

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