The Storms of Life
The sky was glass, the morning air was mild,
A field of promise, beautifully beguiled.
We stood upon the sunlit, steadfast ground,
Where peace was sovereign, and no threat was found.
Then on the edge, where blue embraced the grey,
A shadow gathered, stealing light away;
A distant murmur, a vibrating hum,
The chilling prophecy of things to come.
It started slow, a gentle, restless breeze,
A shiver running through the ancient trees,
Then swiftly swelled to fury, dark and vast,
The signal cannon of the coming blast.
The wind arrived, a brutal, roaring fist,
That clawed the sightline, leaving only mist.
The sun was swallowed by the bruised black cloud,
And all the certainties we knew were bowed.
This was the trial, the comprehensive test,
The tempest tearing comfort from the nest.
Life's sudden sorrows, debts we could not pay,
The harsh betrayal that consumes the day,
The crushing failure, sudden, sharp, and deep,
The silent losses that the heart must keep.
They merged as one, a torrent of despair,
A lightning bolt that split the startled air.
The foundations trembled; did the frame withstand?
Or would we scatter, grains of shifting sand?
The easy impulse is to drop the shield,
To fall exhausted on the watery field,
To let the deluge strip the hope away,
And simply wait for darkness to hold sway.
The rain is freezing, vision is obscured,
And every doubt that slumbered is unearthed.
"I am too frail," the inner voice must plead,
"This overwhelming power, I cannot heed.
Let the waves take me, let the force prevail,
For in this struggle, I am bound to fail."
Yet somewhere, deep beneath the driving spray,
Where true identity refuses to decay,
There is an anchor, forged of purest will,
A solemn promise that is fighting still.
It is the memory of mountains scaled before,
The quiet wisdom learned upon the shore;
The dignity of standing, fixed and tall,
Refusing heed the siren call to fall.
A muscle tenses, though the body shakes,
A primal vow the unbowed spirit makes:
To meet the horizontal rain with eyes
That search beyond the temporary skies.
We clench the teeth and dig the heels in hard,
Ignoring every bruise, every discard.
We brace against the blow, absorb the shock,
Unmoving, rooted like an ancient rock.
The noise is deafening, yet we hear the sound
Of our own heartbeat, steady and profound.
We do not fight the tempest, we endure,
We simply stand, committed, strong, and pure.
For every moment that the structure holds,
The soul remembers stories yet untold;
That broken pieces, when they interlock,
Can make a bulwark stronger than the rock.
And slowly then, with lingering, long goodbyes,
The churning malice fades across the skies.
The wind retreats, a tired, whining sound,
And pools of sunlight spill upon the ground.
We look around at ruin and at mud,
The ravaged landscape where our strength once stood.
We are transformed, the former self is gone;
The storm has sculpted us from dusk till dawn.
The scars are visible—a tightened jaw,
A clearer understanding of the law
That trials are merely friction, meant to hone,
The hidden purpose waiting to be known.
So let the seasons bring their tempest grief,
The sudden winter, and the fallen leaf.
We learned the measure of our human might,
Not in the sunshine, but in darkest night.
For though the chaos threatens to immerse,
We are the victors, stronger than the curse.
We face the future, tempered, keen, and wise,
Ready to greet the next storm in our eyes,
Because the true strength is not the lack of dread,
But rising up when fear has sought its bed,
To stand unyielding, when the great winds blow,
And know the depths of what the soul can know.
