Stormsight by Juliette Sebock

There’s a storm coming, they say,
but not for some time, almost a week yet.
I’m refreshing the weather app time and again,
just waiting to prove them wrong.


I’m feeling the storm brewing.

I’m feeling it in each deep-set pain,
every rusted joint’s bend.
Thunder is radiating from my breastbone
with each long, hard breath.
Lighting strikes my eyes, blinding me
for a moment each time
as if forcing me to forget
my prophecy.

I’m shaking from the chill
as the forecast shifts.

They’re finding the storm’s snuck up
on them as a single raindrop is slipping,
searing down the skin of my cheek.


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