The Eye of the Storm Was His Fists

The Eye of the Storm Was His Fists

His fury rose like a thunder’s cry,

A storm unleashed in the midnight sky.

No warning came, no calm before,

Just the crack of rage and a slamming door.

The eye of the storm was his fists, so tight,

Spinning the winds of fear and fright.

Walls trembled, windows shook,

Love erased with every look.

Lightning lived in his sharpened glare,

A silent threat, a whispered dare.

His hands would fall like pouring rain,

Leaving bruises dressed in pain.

She stood in the wreckage, small and still,

A paper boat in a sea of will.

The tide would turn, the winds would wane,

But scars would whisper his name in vain.

Some storms fade, dissolve, subside,

But his remained, a beast inside.

Even in peace, the echoes stayed,

Thunder’s ghost in skies of grey.

Yet one day came with a sun so bold,

Breaking the chains of a story old.

She rose like dawn, her voice like flame,

And called the storm by its true name.

Now silence hums where tempests roared,

The winds are gone, the rains ignored.

The eye of the storm was once his fists,

strength was hers to put and end to unhappyness.