Tristan Robert Lange

The Tempest\'s Strike

The storm is brewing,
Rolling in on the sun.
Birds soar high
In the ominous sky,

The air thick

With dark forebodings.

Rancor streams briskly

In the acrid wind,

The stench of cruel spite

Lingers on in perpetuity

Within abyssal mouths

Salivating with pride.

Then the hot flash,

The strobing lightning

Strikes with precision.

Hitting the innocent

With searing electrocution—

Pain causes the writhing.

Hesitation dictates

The imminent response.

The storm rips through

The village of acrimony

With disastrous disdain.

It will have its way.

The storm rolls through...

This day.