Walking the Storm

Bold of I on storming weathered wings to walk the forest threatening to temper like a displeased lover, while blackened clouds, a darkened arch, etch prophecies in rotting bark with green-mossed fingers. Thunder rumbles bones of fallen trees, speckled stones, it is I alone, guided by a crackling light a winding path, who understands nature's wrath...its gnashing teeth, frozen breath ripping holes in heaven's chest while dark blood stains billowing sheets of sky, the quickened river bed runs high, pulling saplings from shore's grasp wrenching them away at last- to disappear beneath its surface.