Storm Personified

Lightning’s silver bullet, Rips the hollow clouds to ribbons. Cold September’s rain, Soaks the steaming skin, And calms the beating monster, that punches through today Like a plane crashing to ground. Sitting on the balcony, The clouds’ tears, Bursting on the stone to my left. On beautifully stormy nights, Like this one, She animates, revitalizes and Breathes life’s cold cider through my veins. The air tastes like a freshly fallen apple, She smells of life, Colour and blissful youth, Like an iced pareos brushes past your cells. But her bloodthirsty husband, with dreadful discharge, unaimed, disavowes her freshness, and kills his victims, with silver bullets, reflecting his grimace. Still sitting on the very same balcony, Rushing my fingers, suggestively Down her legs and up to her leaves, Enjoying her whispers, Smelling her make-up. Come you coward, Let us see how bright I burn.