The Maniacal Storm

The Maniacal Storm

Anthony DeLapi, Staff Writer

On a dreary day,

On the sunset of an early May,

I sat on my little wooden porch.

In a rocking-chair made of timber and pine,

Finding some relaxation, peace of mind.

While I remained stationary in the chair,

My mind,

My body,

My soul,

Felt as free to fly in the open air.

On this early May,

The clouds began to rumble, twist, and sway,

Into heaps of swirling gray.

An echoing growl spread throughout out the sky,

As harsh winds smacked on the trees harsh and fowl,

Sounds of the oaks’ shrieks and howls.

Gray turned black,

Rumble to roar,

Soon the onslaught of above will begin.

A storm has come.

They take away your freedom,

Your opportunities,

Your plans.

They leave you sheltered,

In the cocoon that is your home.

They come big and small,

But this is a special one.

The Maniacal Storm,

The Mad Rain.

Nature unleashes its wrath,

Its torment,

And all its secrets,

Onto the world.

Oceans in the skies fall onto the Earth,

Flooding the streets.

Tears of Clouds,

Fill the world with its sorrow.

The uncontrollable power of Lightning,

Finds its passageway through tree, rock, and flesh.

Hurricanes, Typhoons, Earthquakes.

The clouds roar, hiss, and cry,

As a Symphony of Terror commences.

If there are truly Gods on Mount Olympus,

Then they must be having a fistfight up there.

What do you do?

This is no man,

No intentions,

No ambitions,

No thought or mind.

This is the way of nature,

This is the way of life.

To confront the storm,

Would lead to black char.

To hide from the storm,

Would lead to your own decay.

You must cope with it,

The Maniacal Storm.

Cannot fight it,

For its out of the control of regular hands.

Cannot surrender to it,

Because strength cannot wrap itself up,

Into a tiny weak ball.

Be with the storm,

Fear it,

Learn from it,

Live with it.

Like trees,

Grow and Blossom into areas that you can.

Apples cannot grow in the Winter,

Nor shall there’ll be rotting in Summer.

On a dreary day,

On the dark night of a late May,

The Schizo Storm,

Emptying its tank,

Begins to pass away.

Once again, we thrive,

We prosper.

Yet another storm may come,



No matter what,

Never give up.