Zeus
I watched the storm arriving an hour ago and write to its presence.
I’m inspired by thunderstorms, something about the danger of bright lightning, the vibrating roll of thunder, the drumming of the rain. I have to be outside, smell the tarmac, and hope to god the next zip of electricity doesn’t find me.
The story is coming toward me, it’s kind of purplish, and through my study window a breeze has already become a wind, bringing the storm closer, quicker. It comes without legs or feet, and cannot be held, confronted, or agued with.
From a distance it looks behind the sky, and the deluge ahead of the storm already darkening the sky to evening, early, before streetlamps come alight, everything turning into night.
Behind the rain, a stuttering grumble, lowly pitched, trembling the ground before the roar of the bass is sounded.
None of us is so wealthy, so influential, that we can turn it away. A storm like the one coming cannot be enriched by love. Why are the hairs on my legs quivering? Landscape is no more, or has changed, as the grumble becomes more discontent, jolted by electricity like a beast suffering, a roaring pain.
Branches begin to slap, crack, and straight lines difficult to walk.
It is the roar of heroes falling down, sacrificed, and the anger swells, the sky is lit, fired, split open and heroes taken up. Zeus’ agony is clear, frightening in its remorse, fearful in its temper.
Thunder changes me, lightning inspires me, rain cleanses me. Shock waves rustle through my beard.
Zeus is unhappy.
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