A ripple on a serene lake
reminds me
of the storm that
sleeps somewhere deep within me,
waiting for the right time to come back
and rage.
A little breeze on my skin
is like a hurricane
that takes me
to the land of
the past, and reveals every hidden scar.
It
takes
me
back.
All the trees,
broken and ripped from the ground,
and the grass
was consumed by fires.
Now,
in the quiet times,
I can hear
every distant thunder.
And
I
wait.