Thunder Storm

The sky is wounded, an extending dim,

A tempest starts to brew today.

The breezes rush forward with breath untamed,

Murmurs of bedlam yet anonymous.

Trees twist low in humble bow,

As thunder breaks, a powerful commitment.

The sky moan, a voice of old,

Stories of force, furious and intense.

Raindrops dance like silver globules,

Planting wild, neglected seeds.

On housetops, streams start to murmur,

A basic melody, a pounding drum.

The lightning paints the sky land,

Dividing shadows, birthing dread.

In streaks splendid, the dim reveals

Nature's mysteries, old stories.

The world is trapped in wild hug,

No asylum from its turbulent elegance.

However in the disarray, pulses slow,

A delicate quiet underneath the stream.

For in the thunder of winds and downpour,

A purging comes, a finish to torment.

The earth, however shudder, discovers a sense of harmony,

Through thunder's fury, a sweet delivery.

The tempest, a wild, untamed dream,

Her ensemble none can decline.

However, whenever her wrath's had its day,

She leaves the world in delicate cluster.

The skies clear out, the breezes die down,

Furthermore, quietness rules where tempests impact.

However something in the air remains —

A memory of thunder's rule.

What's more, as the calm gradually develops,

The earth, presently flickering, delicately gleams.

Afterward, we rise and sprout,

Reestablished essentially's antiquated tune.