Long after the storm had died <br />the river lived <br />in drips and gushes <br />like tears <br />like beads of glass <br />bleeding down gorges <br />of sorrow on her face <br /> <br />The night had been too long <br />the windows broken by the breeze <br />the sky like heavy brows <br />over angry eyes <br />the lightning in the distance <br />an unsheathed dagger <br />in a lonely alley at night <br /> <br />You told me to meet you here <br />after the storm had passed <br />after the thunder in your chest <br />had stopped <br />after the falling rain <br />had blessed <br />this ground <br /> <br />But through each painful tear <br />the lightning appears <br />and that night returns <br />to catch each rolling drop <br />each tiny fear <br />each possibility <br />at your naked feet <br /> <br />I waited and waited till the storm had stopped <br />but the river flowed <br />and the beads I saw <br />were no longer tears <br />but balls of bitter glass <br />unbroken, unborn <br />unable to live and, therefore, to die<br /><br />Wesley Gibbings<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/surviving-the-storm-3/
