Poetry

She sits by the window as the storm rages outside, But she sees nothing with her unfocused eyes. She is aware of the thunder, rolling by and by, But not because she hears him, rumbling across the sky. He aims for her heart, not her ears, and he is expecting the flood of tears. She walks outside into the night, consumed by something similar to fright. The lightning flashes by her side And simultaneously, in her mind. She sees the blinding light, Much clearer than you or I might. She sees more than her soul can bear, the knowledge evident with every rip and tear. Because though her eyes are closed, her heart is open, And she would never block out that which would come in. She knows that is her mortality, that it will cause her death, She knows, yet she looks to her morality, and draws a ragged breath. She shudders under the weight, and steels her soul against the pain, purposely trying to drown it in the falling rain. Then the heat begins to rise, until the flames catch And burn deep in her eyes. Overwhelming are the sensations that fill her very being, derived from so much more than seeing. It comes from someplace hidden within, this power that swells and roars again and again. The invisible force is formed, to guide her to release, And she lets go, seeking some form of peace. But, of course, there is no peace here or there, or anywhere.  And does she really care? Life is the storm and God is the thunder, You are her, and I am the weight you are under.