By LT Shredder
It starts far away on the rim of the sky,
Obscuring an evening of purples and blues.
A steely gray curtain hangs down from on high
Then darkens to black like a deep-tissue bruise.
The storm comes upon us just after moonrise –
No pale, gentle glow to banish the dark.
Instead, the storm’s fury sears into my eyes:
Flashes of lightning leave reddish-green marks.
Waves stab at the sky with liquid-sharp blades,
Their turbulent surface like ink or like blood:
So violent it hardly seems real to my gaze,
Out of the scope, from below to above.
Up there, the wind screams and a driving rain falls,
But under the sea, I feel nothing at all.