Thunder

The clouds have collided as do bumper cars careened, Aimed to smash each other into molten smithereens. Seven hundred and seventy miles per hour they go, Breaking the boundaries of what sound vibrates below. Supersonic plasmic bolts blast betwixt the gaseous slaughter, Of ionized particles parlayed in stratus strung pools of water. In noctilucent litany the benumbing bombed booms of nimbus lightning, Shakes the horizon in zapping hums the brontophobes find frightening. For Mjolnir has struck the cloud's anvil with a might of the Norse, Whose platinum horseshoes smack the sky with thunderous force.