Poets of old have told of such tempests;
Where lightning stabs at the earth and sea.
Where there is no end, no pause and no respite —
Where thunder claps, and the clouds spill free.
In days when the sky cries its lament,
A storm descends, tears heaven sent.
A fog so dense, a chaos too strong,
A mighty will imposed upon all.
My fingers tremble as I write of this cyclone,
I’m giddy, a poet who has been thrown a bone
For now I can witness and record this war
One that requires neither bow nor sword.
I view the past in my mind’s own eye,
That bygone calm before the storm, where the sky
Grew brooding and dark, I watched with palpable zeal
Until the torrent of fury was no longer concealed.
But, no, alas, is “fury” the word?
For the winds I am facing are perhaps not enraged,
Though they beat with vigor on my window panes.
When such a storm comes for you, be forewarned:
The Eye of the Tempest lies deceptively in the norm.