Storm In Revenge

She walked hurriedly back home, her dress drenched. It hardly mattered. Her eyes sparked wild red. Her face was deadly pale, soul sick, fists clenched. Outside the mad storm raged but she felt dead. She sat on a sofa facing the door, She barely heard the wild thunder booming, Nor cared as dark clouds gathered from the shore, Despite the storm he would come back blooming. He was that type of skunk, no truth in him, She should have been much wiser, now too late. All her lovely dreams had grown deadly dim. He'd keep his secret tryst that spelt his fate. He came staggering drunk, rumpled torn vest, She looked steadily, shot him thrice with zest.