the storm-spell starts
stormfront juggernaut
impending from the West
potential promise is spent
I’m staring at a stillborn miracle
trying to shift from emotional
to a perspective more empirical
while gales of sorrow
whisk away that will
the thunderstorm, a cruel turmoil
pelting bullets upon an open lake
pygmy crowns of liquid they shape
ascend and reprimand my head
the complexities of these
vertices of wind extend
with cold claws coring
out my center, the thunderhead
hollers with lightning applause
churning cloud of torment,
contains screen doors, fence lines
and a barrage of odd objects
torn from their usual climes
irrevocable eradication from
the spumous mass advancing
without fail to my location
I am in its thrall, can only stand
with head held in defiance
awaiting certain devastation
with a fractious scowl,
doomed yet dogged
for I played the bull-roarer.
