The Storm

Tilt back your head and cry havoc. As blood and bone twine beneath your skin, overlaid, with a kind of raw madness, that has you running to the storm. Tilt back your head and cry havoc. Twisting, Turning, Tearing, those winds from out the shrieking void come. Echoes of the things you lost trailing in their wake. Tilt back your head and cry havoc. The gale sweeps down, and you rush to meet it. The cruel, cold, cut of the rain strikes your face, and in the blind despair of the would-be dead, you let it. Tilt back your head and cry havoc.