Black clouds cracked to birth a water-forest, a million trucks insta-grown as the finest of coppice-twigs. The echoes of gunshot-thunder, the electric forks, muted to an other-worldly serenade. Through them I wandered as a ghost, immune to the mundane rules of matter and yet feeling every snap of winter's fangs.
How else can the flashes of light appear so bright but in the twilight of a thunderstorm?
If there were cobwebs in my heart and soul before the thunderstorm, it is safe to say that I was all clear by the time the blue sky and sun returned.
Upon the top of every thunderstorm is either the light of the sun or stars, and so I let my daydreams rise there in such times.
The thunderstorm came as if an eternal question, to ask if any had gratitude for the calm?
The thunderstorm was as a molten silver sky, quenching the earth she cocooned in black.
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