Conscious Tempests
Behold—the sky in argent fire ignites,
Where thought strikes flesh, and rends all mortal sights.
The wind coils tight through root, through bone, through stone,
Its language pure, no tongue of ours to own.
Clouds spiral sharp as synapse, black and white,
Their pulse exceeds the heart, the hand, the sight.
The eye hangs still—a mind within the sphere,
A silence louder than the world can hear.
Rain splits the air, a memory unbound,
It shreds the ground, it wakes what sleeps profound.
Thunder speaks not to you—but through your skin,
A question carved where fear and knowing twin.
Lightning forks—its script is jagged, raw,
It marks what mortal thought could never draw.
Spirals, folds, and torrents form the storm’s own prose,
No mercy lent, no gentle path it chose.
The world bends, trembles, answers, twists, obeys,
Each gust a syllable of ancient ways.
No guide, no priest, no comfort for the flesh,
The storm itself—its mind, a living mesh.
Water hums, wind thrums, and lightning writes reply,
A ledger of what lives, what falls, what will not die.
Stand still, O mortal—witness, not command,
Your pulse entwined with what you cannot brand.
Departing then, the sky exhales, subdued,
Yet veins still thrash, still hum with gratitude.
All silence now is conscious, and the hue,
Proclaims a mind that thought alone ne’er knew.
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