Secrets of Thunder

I wake to the voice in the clouds,

a sermon groaning in thunders tongue.

The corners of my room soften,

shadows stretching like gentle hands

to cradle my half-dreaming touch.

Poetry at 2 a.m

Everything feels closer in the dark,

like the walls are breathing with me.

the world beyond this storm

Is whispering, the end.

Doomsday in all its wrath,

as the heavens split above me.

And yet,

in this small hour,

bathed in thunder’s hymn,

I feel less like a watcher to the end

and more like a child held

by something ancient and unafraid.

I am with it. Waiting.