Yet seemed to be a thunder,
Loud and lauding harder,
Pouncing and growling….”surrender!”,
While pounding on those she’d threw under.
But ‘they’ were wrong….a blunder, a blinder.
I purport to always have known her,
She was rather a sandstorm,
Mild and smooth like a perfect song,
Vast, deep, mysterious; like a wormhole!!
Just as detrimental, only in a manner ignorable.
Guess she always wondered, can there be thunder without a storm?
@Daabris.
A word, a phrase, a poem. The art of Art 