~A thunderstorm is beautiful and powerful and violent—not only loud, but exhilarating.~
A BRIGHT BITTER
The chilly fragrance of wind,
The fall in our desperate hours,
The trees sit aligned,
Guarding these weakened flowers.
Bring she who has come,
Though silence rings still,
Hiding is the sun
Behind this chastened hill.
Threatening quiet,
Abroad the deafening spire,
Down below starts a riot
And the silence starts to tire.
They stand like grey pilgrims on watch,
Already left, but here: forlorn;
All marked with many a notch;
All have heard many a mourn.
Winter naught but a taste
On the trees darned in bright hue;
The grass is still graced
With early mornings crisp dew.
Her courtly face stained with despair;
Her feet trod with lessened grace;
The eyes cast down behind her hair;
A desolate, dreary hollow place.
In great trek, she passed him by,
Looked leaving dignified at first glance.
A colossal clock struck ten nearby
Signing the end of her one true romance.
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