Anticipating the Storm

The lightning flashes. Wind blows quietly through the trees. We stand on the verge of something powerful, of something frightening. In the stillness our eyes swell up with streams of regret, we are gray in the shadow of a gathering cloud. Hold still butterfly, your wings cause storms. We are not ready. Our lungs pull the oxygen from the air, and we are crushed in anticipation for a concussion. Innocence cries but no one looks, we are distracted by a beautiful destruction. Holding hands we close our eyes and look to the sweltering dark. The storm has come. We search for the light.