Thunderstorm

It’s dull,

The clouds stained with grey.
Anticipation.
The humid air static
With the whispers
Of the coming storm.
The looming blackness.
Heavy, thick clouds
Travel slowly across the sky.
It will come.
The pouring, tipping rain.
The sky is fit to burst.
Rattling window panes.
Tiny raindrops
Rapping dashes on the glass.
The wind is churning up
The bloated clouds.
The first thunder booms.
The sky tears itself in half.
A groaning, roaring thunder,
A searing strike down the sky.
Raindrops pounding rooftops,
Another burning hot strike
An ongoing torrent.
Until the rain fades into the day.
The fresh smell of glittery dewdrops
And rained-on tarmac.
The fading whispers.
The rain will come again.
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About pasameerday

I haven't got a lot of time to keep you interested, so I'll be quick. I'm a writer from the UK, primarily of fantasy and sci-fi short stories, and occasionally of strange, nonsensical poetry. I like cats, the Sims, and pizza, and I go to sleep to the sound of a keyboard. I've been writing for my entire life; to be honest, I don't think I could ever bring myself to stop. I have a feeling I'm losing you, so I'll bring this to an end before you slowly start to back up, hoping I'll stop talking long enough for you to make a quick getaway. Wait... Where are you going? Hey! Wait! ... Stop!!
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