I Am Storm

I gather the wild tendrils of rolling bleakness and lace 

a writhing black bonnet. But misshapen silhouettes slip 

through the fretwork. Lightning forks my hair into a 

screeching scourge which pelts me into a cower, 

skull 

squatting, 

inanimate,

clay emulating rock.

Skewered by a deluge of needles, their medicine leaked,

poison seeps into my thoughts until they swell like 

maggots

sated on joy.

Bruised as a thundercloud, 

each budding damson of aptitude is 

gusted, fist-crushed and boot-trampled, 

taken away dirty underfoot.

Every lantern is stuttering in this howl,

and I am darkening with rainwater.