the storm

the walls muffle the sound of the thunder as it creeps closer and closer. the windows dim the lightning as it cuts through the sky like a razor. they contain it to four small rectangles of glass that silouhette on the bare walls. the wildness of the storm is stifled by the curtains and the smell that always engulfs me...is not there. it cannot make it through the window panes. but the storm grows stronger, and i can feel the house shake at the voice of the thunder. growing closer and closer...speaking words of destruction...telling how it could rip this house apart...how easily it could tear the tin roof from the frame. the wind drives the rain harder and harder on the roof and batters the side of the house. blue-white lightning circles the house, adding its threats to those of the thunder. still the house stands. in one last burst of violence, the air screams unearthily as the lightning curls down from the storm, and touches the roof. the windows crack but all is muffled by the nearly instantaneous noise that mirrors deafness in its intensity. the blinding flash lights up the greyness that has fallen over everything to such a degree, that all color is bleached away, and for that fraction of a second, the grey is gone and the world is caught in black and white...but mostly white. fear rises, and the heart has yet to slow...now, every time the thunder growls its warning, know that it does not bluff of its bite; and fear. with every crash, the hair on her arms rises and a chill runs through her body. had she been outside for this storm, she would have lost all concious thought and have been carried away with the storm as helplessly as a small bird. she would have been engulfed by a power so much larger than herself, and she would have enjoyed the helplessness and the power that consumed her more than the arms of any she has loved. no past, no future, and no present. only the storm...fleeting and instantaneous, but an enternity when it overcomes all of the senses, and blots thought from the mind. there is nothing outside the storm, nothing before or after...only the storm...and its strength. yet she sits, with the thunder still rumbling in her chest...competing with her heart for control of her body, and she regrets that she did not get carried away...she regrets that the storm did not tear the roof off the house to reach to her; that the wind did not peel away the walls to find her, and the lightning shear the frame to touch her. she scorns the stifling walls and curses the cloudy windows. and she lusts for the storm's return.