The storm is my soul,
splendid wrath and serene repose,
caught between its swaddled wrap
and the questions beyond my grasp.
Bequeathed the sense to consider truth,
the duality of each earthly ruse,
a blind assurance of equality’s map,
is just a slight of hand collapse.
I am, I must, for I can sentient be,
consider all that encrusts my thoughts, to see,
epiphanies shadows, and lies in sheep’s clothing,
attest my doubts and loathing.
My storm is lightning struck,
wrath ventured to remove my luck,
and for all my hopes and good will pleas,
perhaps I’ll be the death of me.
And colours grace my skies at war,
yellow flashes and so much more,
as reality explodes to dust restore,
what truth remains upon the floor.
So this struggle I’ll continue,
the storm shows no wane, no relent,
and light so small I barely see,
will reveal the truth to me, eventually.
I remain at war, the storm closes in as I speak,
yet wrath cannot destroy my truth,
no matter its intent, its violent coup,
for I am, and will be, the savior of me.
And in truth I’ll stand, before that errant storm,
and lightning cannot strike me, prevent the dawn,
for this is my world to seed,
and storms are fleeting in my summer skies,
adorned with an understanding sun,
a world I at end, have won.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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