John Grey

Storm rolls in, ominous,
birdsong dies.
Wind is stirred,
blows out of anguish.
Before a voice can be lowered.
trees close together
out of fear.

In the parlor,
bodies align themselves
with sides in old arguments.
Bulbs flicker.
Even lovers discover
there´s more blindness than vision
in this dirge-crazy evensong.

Thunder peals.
Voices respond.
Lightning rips the sky apart.
People split themselves.

Outside,
the world growls like
a mother beast
separated from its young.
It pounds on house after house.
demands we set free
the inner squalls.
Doesn´t it understand?
We´re doing that already.