Hurricane Me

A storm blows through.

No, it doesn't.

It doesn't blow, it hits,

It rages and struggles against the peace

Of what came before.

A storm arrives.

No, it doesn't.

It doesn't arrive, it builds,

It grows and swells

Till it can't be contained.

And there the darkness

Veils thin light.

In the thickness

Of the clouds

There hides an eye

Which blinks stale tears.

It aches to cry

Like the wailing storm.

When the storm blows through

It leaves behind

A wake of empty, wretched waste.

A broken, scattered vestige of

What came before

What isn't now.

When the storm is gone,

The eye remains,

The salty, shining gaze purveys

The wreckage and the strength

That lies beneath the shell of damage

Waiting to begin again.