The Virgin drops fall gently against my vulnerable sculpture, bringing a wave of tranquility that laps against my soul.
As the hands of the piercing wind claws like a wild banshee through the voluminous ebony clouds, tears of anger sting the face of the black sponge waiting below in thirst.
The fire of heaven slits through the night sky in a thin line of destruction, and briefly lights what should be dark.
As the grumble sounds, there are no signs of what passed in the night except for the freshness that lingers behind.
By: Lucky to be Irish