Extremes

February 6, 2008
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The Storm comes, late at night,
Or maybe early morning,
With roaring thunder, and pounding rain,
And dark skies.

I roll over, sleeplessly,
The wind is howling loudly,
And blowing the trees,
So that their branches tap my window.

I feel restless,
And although I know,
I will be exhausted in the morning,
I desperately cling to consciousness.

I don’t want to miss even a second,
Of the dangerous beauty.
It terrifies me,
But I can’t look away.

When the storm finally disappears,
The intense calmness feels just as beautiful as the violent winds,
And I still struggle to stay awake,
Until, at last, the sun rises.

The dawn is a disappointment,
Neutral, not wild or exaggerated,
It doesn’t hold the same attraction,
So I close my eyes and sleep.





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