The strike

March 30, 2018
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I watch as tiny raindrops

plop to the cement. 

The harsh, dry, grey turns to 

a soothing, damp, ash.


I take a deep breath 

my favorite scent

fills my nasal passages, 

and I close my eyes.


Raindrops, clear and beautiful, 

land on my warm skin

and slide down my cheecks.

I run my fingers through my stringy hair.

It's cold and wet. 


I start to walk, 

the rain begins to pour down

with more force,

as my pace quickens.


I begin to run for my life, 

a loud clap of thunder

makes me jump out of my skin.

I stop to see a firey bolt strike infront of my face.

And suddenly my world is in flames. 

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