“Her Storm”
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Health and Wellness

“Her Storm”

An original poem for the broken hearts and tears that follow

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“Her Storm”
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In our darkest days, it feels as though a storm is building inside of us. Turbulent winds rock our faith and cold rains dampen our spirits as the deepest core of our being trembles violently. Our pain is what connects us as human beings; only time within our solitude, and love and care from others have a chance at stitching the pieces back together. These moments will pass, but sometimes there’s no other option than to open the flood gates and trust that your raft is strong enough to endure the emotional tempest.

“Her Storm”

Mid-day. The sky grows ever darker.

Soot-colored clouds block out any memory of a clear blue sky.

They swell with moisture. The coming storm is inevitable.

Then, a blurred sheet descends, visible on the horizon,

the first tears dropping from mother nature’s eye.

Between the moans of the wind and pulses of distant thunder,

the rain can be heard moving closer, increasing in amplitude.

The humidity that saturates the air

holds the land in a stagnant embrace.

The muddied grass is a tear-stained mat.

The soil under each slick blade consumes and collects the fallen moisture

to be evaporated again, feeding her tear ducts.

But she won’t break. She’ll hold it in

until the weight is too much to bear.

The trees sway as the wind gusts,

Each branch waving to its neighbors across the open field.

Not in greeting, but as a gesture that “I’m fine over here…”

Though they can’t see the debris falling, the crumpled leaves

and snapped twigs.

A neon flash illuminates a section of the smoky sky.

As the atmosphere snaps shut around the silver bolt,

The rumble can be felt deep in the earth,

Permeating the tension in the air

In a tremble that rocks the soul.

---

She cowers in the dark corner,

Vision blurred by tears beginning to fill her eyes.

The sob rises from the depths of her heart

in a pained low moan.

Her arms fold securely around her abdomen,

An embrace meant to hold her pieces together.

Bent over, her hair hangs,

framing her face and swaying as she rocks.

She doesn’t bother to protect her now tear-stained jeans.

As the pain consumes her,

she trembles and sobs until there’s nothing more to give.

Her tears run dry, her sorrow becomes silent,

And she wills herself into a fitful sleep.


By Chelsea Monk

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.
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