A Storm's Musing

The rolling rumble, resonating through the clouds


above echoes the deep unsettling roar of some past


ancient giant, his breaths core-shaking strums.


An old and mighty rainstick shakes with vigor, its


beads falling rhythmless and forming a staccato–


showering the earth in pricking needles.


The strong brave the sharp prodding without second-


guessing the might that comes with defying


old Eurus’ unrelenting and dissonant barrage;


others, much weaker, hide their covered heads


under seamless shingled roofs, not


daring to face the stormy awe.


(Sitting in a study) blinds open and revealing me


a battered window, glass streaked by shards


cutting through the twilight sky as the old god’s


songs play once more, unintelligible to mortal ears.


Strong or weak, all must hear the music, its drones


carrying towards the fields all men head to but


none can reach. Not I, for with strong will and weak


walls do seek to listen to Eurus’ age-old voice,


to understand the dissonant and rhythmless measures


that mark man’s life –guide towards a resting beat.


When the music no longer carries me, but is


carried within me, then I will know not


the stormy foam it brings,


but the peaceful wake it leaves behind

This poem is about: 
Our world

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