![]() RainstormA Poem by The Pilgrim
The thunder fills the empty space
until he is deafened by it, and he cowers beneath cotton mountains in a futile attempt to escape the noise. But it follows after. Droplets fall against panes, heavy and hot, burning, burning, burning, and he is suddenly exposed like glass, transparent and far too vulnerable. Soon, he assures, the sky must run dry, and the chaos must calm, and then he will be okay. But he is a silent rainstorm, a hurricane, and no one, not even himself, will understand that this is only the eye. © 2018 The PilgrimFeatured Review
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2 Reviews Added on July 30, 2018 Last Updated on July 30, 2018 Author
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