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Britnie Phillips A blank page in front of me, A storm before me. What compels one, to brave a raging storm? To sit in amongst the raging wind? Is it the danger? The adventure of being able to hold out And stay alive until something gives? Be it you or the tempest... And yet, there will be those who fall to the ground. Knees pulled to their chest, weeping, weeping... Trees swaying to and fro; reaching, reaching, Knowing it may be the only time it will touch its close neighbor. Funny, how storms will cause this. Cause things that wouldn’t (or couldn’t) normally touch, Come into intimate contact. The clouds are running. Running to or from something? They boil across the sky, twisting, writhing, forming and reforming. It is also funny, how people will run from something in a storm, But rarely run to something. God. The Holy One, all-knowing and all-seeing... This storm has not gone unnoticed by Him...Oh no. He awaits. Awaits for that one who thought he could brave the storm, but cannot alone... He awaits. Awaits that one who knew he couldn’t beat the tempest, and has given in... Gloriously enough, when these loners come home, The tempest seems nothing but a squall. Silly, they may think, to have waited so long for this peace, for this blessed help. And though they may both have bruises, scars, Caused by loose debris; they will be able to look at them, And learn. Learn that storms will come. Tempests will call, But God, God calms them all. |
