Thunderstorm - Poem

Thunderstorm

It begins with a whisper,

a breath held in the throat of the sky—

then the hush breaks.

Lightning splits the heavens

like a sword through silk,

and the earth braces

for the wrath of the gods.

Drums of thunder roll across the horizon,

roaring like a beast unchained,

each strike a furious heartbeat

pounding through the bones of the world.

The wind howls—not in song,

but in war cry,

tearing through trees

and slamming against rooftops

like fists on iron gates.

Rain descends in blades,

cold and merciless,

cutting through silence,

flooding the silence,

drowning the stars.

The storm does not ask.

It takes—

the calm, the light,

the stillness of things forgotten.

And in its fury,

there is truth:

raw,

unforgiving,

magnificent.

The thunderstorm

does not weep—

it commands,

it conquers,

it cleanses.

And when it leaves,

only the brave remain

to hear the echo of its rage

still trembling in the wet bones of the land.