The Storm

The storm stood

in the doorway brooding.

His black coat

puffed out and seething.

His hood, open large

with spines that spoke of harm.

The spitting started:

sending arrows of pain

into a face looking his way.

Boiling bangs

began dropping words

falling like fireworks.

With shoulders raised,

his chest sputtered out

the pain of pent fury.

Steeped in discontent

he burst forth

sweeping tears

across a flooded floor,

sobbing

until he hurled

all he had

before finding

silence.