The Quiet Storm


The thunder is completely silent. The lightning is invisible, so the sky stays dark. The rain is dry, dry as a desert, dry as my soul. It's a quiet storm. There's no sound, except for the sound of my heart breaking. There's no color except the color of my blood. There's no light, none at all, not even the light in my soul, which is no longer there. Like a candle, hope flickers in a dreary attic. I raise my face to the quiet storm, and yell my problems to God. He can't hear me over this extremely loud silent storm, and all I can hear is myself.