My hand shakes as I write.
Lines and curves.
Quivering like a crisp leaf,
as the calm before the storm dissipates.
I have so. Many. Questions.
But how can I follow the directions?
When the map is ripped apart.
I look for a sign.
Is that the sound of running water?
Or an approaching storm?
As the lightning starts to strike,
the sky is flickering like a light bulb on it's last leg.
The clouds tremble.
And soon their weeping drenches me.
I do not move.
Taking it all in,
absorbing the wrath of the sky.
Pretend that wrath is mine.
I let the clouds cry for me,
let the lightning say what I wish I could.
I wish I could.