The Storm
Prone, you lie in the sand,
The waves roll up the shore
and caress your skin like a hand giving a gentle massage,
softly whispering sweet nothings in your ear.
The sun rises slowly into the mid-morning sky
a golden discus rushing towards the apex of its flight.
The orb, lies in a background of soft blue
wisps of white splashed sparsely on the canvas.
The soft blue sky is suddenly overrun by heavy grey clouds,
like the Reich over France and Belgium.
The once soft, welcoming sand,
now coarse, rough, and acts like glass tearing through your skin,
as if little blades are running over your body.
Waves rush up the shore like an avalanche down the ever changing face of a mountain,
pound and drag you against the shore.
The gales shoot clouds of sand into the air as if you
were standing in a wind tunnel saturated with sand,
the minuscule particles whipping past your face
like bursts of anti-aircraft fire in the Battle of London.
The sun, scorches your parched, raw skin,
As a vampire drinks the remaining life from a hollow shell.
The dark, grey clouds release their payload,
Small fine droplets replace the blazing sun,
quelling the clouds of sand,
easing the torrents of water,
softening the craggy earth.
The fine droplets meander through those of a
sorrow laden likeness interwoven within.
Flowing down the cheek,
finding the barrier of your nose,
rolling around your lips and off your chin.
The droplets of sorrow and denial,
Falling,
Dropping,
Flooding,
Extinguishing the flames
Of hopes and dreams.
Return to the World of Spork
This poem is composed by Albert Chan and if taken should be accredited. For non-profit use only. Thanks, Jess, for the feedback.
