An anvil crawls across the sky, of soft shape but steel gray, and I wonder when to expect the inbound tempest fray? When comes the lightening and thunder, the shaking window sills, the neck hairs standing upon end -- herald of lightening chills? Will it pass by rumbling distant or strike the local spire? Will it rain so hard that it puts out its own blazing fires?
Nothing stands still; everything is moving —
Sound and Fury signifying Calm’s death.
Minds conflate the confused and the confusing.
Mouths gasp open but they can’t suck a breath.
Angry gods find newly pious converts.
Sinners sin like they’ll not get one more chance.
While disaster plays the consummate flirt,
dunking sailors, but pulling them back to dance.
Every soul knows each storm must – in time – end.
But one can’t know whether time is one’s friend.