THE ART OF STORM AND SONG

 

THE ART OF STORM AND SONG

If it makes you sick

to your stomach,

churns deep inside

like a storm-tossed sea,

then it is art—

raw and untamed,

a splintered blade

of honesty

buried in your core,

too fierce to ignore.

Go with your gut,

that ancient guide,

its pulse thrumming

like a drumbeat

beneath the ribs,

unbound by

the crisp lines

of reason’s

rigid frame.  

The head,

too smart for its own good,

weaves a web

of calculated threads,

a machine humming

with precision,

too polished

to hold

the ragged edges

of a feeling’s cry.

Brains,

so quick to slump

into the lull

of the familiar,

prizing the quiet

of locked doors

over the gamble

of stepping

into the wind’s

furious embrace.  

But love—

love doesn’t sit pretty

on a page,

boxed in by margins

or solved like a sum.

It’s a hurricane

scrawled in shadow,

a clash of thunder

and splintered light.

It’s that person—

their name a spark,

igniting clouds

thick with rain,

calling down

thunderstorms

in your eyes,

tears crashing

like broken mirrors,

each fragment

gleaming

with hurt and wonder.  

Intuition isn’t

what sets us apart—

it’s the silent song

woven into our bones,

a tether

to the unseen,

binding us

to the stars’

endless sprawl.

It’s those who lean in,

who ride its swell

like a hawk

soaring on a gust,

who claim the heights,

who shatter limits,

and etch their mark

across

the boundless sky.  

So trust the gut

to lead you true,

let the heart

spill its reckless hymn,

and let love

rage like a storm

you sway within—

for art,

like life,

defies the leash,

a fierce melody

meant to be sung

with every

shaking breath.