Storm

The flashes of lightning all around,
The unending thunder resounds,
The raindrops have yet to spatter,
Silence except for whining hounds.

The peace before a storm,
The calm and quiet of the night,
They weigh upon the still midnight air,
Where darkness reigns over light.

When all is sleeping,
When no one turns,
The writer works on, he writes, he states,
The melody of the tune within his heart.

Pen flying across the paper,
Crumpled drafts at hand,
Yet no word sought can express,
The unbearable emotions in his mind recess.

Whispering thoughts echo loudly,
Overwhelming emotions shout.
The writer is far and lost,
Amid the whipping motion of his tool.

A knight crows with victory,
A beggar kneels and weeps,
A young child's earnest face,
The writer yields to his nib.

Standing with the seamen on their voyage,
With the staggering toddler as he trips,
With the merciless criminals at the guillotine,
With the callous ringmaster cracking his whips.

Back in the real world,
Of sorrow, tears and pain:

The first raindrop falls,
Followed by the joyous arrival of another,
A third, a fourth, fifth and sixth,
Till the pattering is loud and clear.