The Storm
Whipping and thrashing
It tears its teeth into anything blocking its path
Frightened souls scatter and flee
Others crouch and hid with closed eyes and clenched fists
How could such natural violence exist
What is its purpose
As dust settles and the clouds part
Light shines down in comfort
Light without dark
Would be merely an afterthought
Like a breeze without heat
A drink without thirst
A breath without life
Copyright © Britt Rose | Year Posted 2014
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