Even humble stars can temper thunder.
The lighted veins are bitter in the dark
layering clouds with frenzied
fire across a raven backdrop.
It ushers in a discord of conscience,
one in allegro, the other in adagio.
The starry metronome can’t keep pace.
Outwardly, there is only a static abyss
unnerving, definitive tranquility
like an untouched lake, or the
taut muscles of a hunting
panther. There is turmoil, underneath, a
sublime introspection, untouched.
A blanket of astral adoration, patiently it
wraps around the crescendoing thunder
a duality unalike but alike, synced
in reversed calm and chaos
you said “breath”, and only
you’re lustrous light could have subdued
my craggy fury, so I breathed.
Steadily, the white hot arrows melt into ebony
and the thunder rolls into a rhythm,
strumming, plucking a romantic bass
a musical caress of compromise.
I can muse of what the thunder whispers to
the stars, for the words have afore flown,
Will you forever be my serenity?