Maelstrom

Why do I speak?

What difference will it make?

The arching furrowed brow of squalid cloud still creases,

Threatening to find it’s release upon the sun starched land,

Wringing out the tears of forgotten mountain tops,

Dousing the fields of endless horizons.

Weary feet pound the cool exposed earth,

Grounding my words as I weave them into the cavorting wind,

Insidious sensation melts into the maelstrom and narcosis ensues,

Drunk on the feeling of insignificance against the rawest elements,

Compelled my sternum lifts gravitating to worship the torrid sky,

Every sinew of muscle unfolding from shoulder to fingertips,

Expanding into the unsteady air like flanking wings of stone.

The first lash of rain tenderly kisses parched and bitten lips,

Like nectar the feeling sinks down my throat and burns into my core,

Outstretched palms become vessels as the liquid pummels down,

Drenching my mind more than my slickened skin,

Reverently I fall to my knees and drink in the feeling of submission,

Inch by inch it consumes as the day falls under the spell of the night.

Savouring the bittersweet taste of swallowing the enthralling darkness,

Awaiting the beautiful devastation of absolution,

Wild eyes trained on erratic pulses of violet light,

Feral electricity imprints upon the tousled undergrowth,

Illuminating my hushed words as I paint them across the vista,

Perhaps the tempest heard me after all.