See, that 

sudden

All, which 

weeps Lies,

down

on Streets:

Not of

what only

tar reeks,

of urban sprawl,

and dreary weeks,

 

but also Trees,

swaying mad,

of forests

thick, and 

Wooden,

Clad.

 

Storms all,

make everything fall, in

such 

Vengeance!

 

for nothing 

 

at

 

All.

 

Arise, life comes,

smiles, chuckles,

then

desperate,

Runs!

 

Such are the 

annals

of life’s 

crashing

sea

Channels.

 

One moment,

a sweet Calm,

but the next,

bodies 

Embalmed.

 

Run!

Precious Fawn!

Don’t you see,

the bark

kept on?

Until longer,

the more it stood,

until

nothing

more,

it ever

could?

 

Mere moments,

don’t you see,

make everything

clear

and dismal free:

of all Illusion

and Mystery

when Father,

Mother,

lie 

and

Bleed?

 

Such was your

folly,

at being born,

and, worse,

to be

jolly!

 

Rapid,

one now learns

what Horror

sears, and 

fiercely

Burns!

 

I am the Storm!

I shred and kill,

what’s

barely

Born,

to have

My

Fill!

 

Men search,

in Vain

for Method,

when none I have,

I’m merely

Wretched!

 

Simmer down,

now I must

for what 

mechanics

Nature thrusts:

 

upon me

and all forces

free,

of all

tender

sympathy!

 

In all impulse

to launch debris,

I always find

 

my

 

only

 

Glee.

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “The First Storm”, 05-10-25

 

© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith