Rinse.

Flash, rumble, pound, shake. It's funny how dark it gets
before the sky lights up, rattling trees, starting fires,
shaking souls right out of the bodies of those eager
onlookers, who peer sallow faces out of grimy
bedroom windows, hoping that catharsis
will come, not in the form of another
oversung song or a colorful piece of
Romanticism artwork, not in the
form of tears or poetry or star
gazing over rustic bridges, or
the grand mess of glorified
nothingness shot out of a
satellite dish, but instead
in the form a splitting
tree, a city shaking
from the force of
something much
larger than
we will
ever
be.