The Storm

The Storm

A wound across the sky

Is gaping, torn asunder

By unseen hands of greater gods

Perfect blue is marred

Left hanging open to the weather

A bruised and bleeding centre

A spreading stain

Seeping into purple

And to black

Opportunistic winds arise

Surround the breach

Stalk it, like fallen prey

Force themselves within

It falls apart

A heavenly disembowelling

Life force rushing out

Roaring in pain

And crying tears of blood

Soaking all below

Shaking fists of opposition

And flashing eyes of anger

The raging tempest passes

The death knell quietly sounds

Whispers in defeat, in demise

Turns within and weeps

Softly, almost gentle

As it leaves

© Ann Bagnall and, 2013.


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