Each day bears with it in passing as daylight dies,
A muted roar,
Deafening silence,
Beneath storm-shrouded skies.
The air is thick with anticipation,
Pressure building,
Stale, bitter cold,
Smothering sensation.
My heart is an abused drum,
Which within my skull,
Will resonate,
Until the skies crackle with lightning,
And the winds scream of storm,
Breaking free all souls made numb.
Quickening beats and alacrity of spirit,
As thunder shatters the daily cycle,
As lightning tears up routine’s pattern,
Strengthening the discharge of angst.
Chaos bid welcome by wanting man,
Desire to bring the changes,
Only violent storms can.
So strike the anvil like mighty Thor,
Send igniting sparks our way,
And hear us cry out in love,
As we together like lovers roar.


About Fredrik Kayser

Everything is connected.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Discharge

  1. Reblogged this on The Daily 400 and commented:
    I love thunderstorms. And this makes me love them even more. Hell yeah.

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