Poem by: Noah Towbin

A storm is coming.
I feel the pressure and suspense building in the sky and on my skin,
The crackling electricity of distant lightning flirting with my soul, 
The ominous breeze gently caressing my hair and foreshadowing chaos,
Raising gooseflesh on my limbs and sending chills down my spine.

A storm is coming.
I taste the idea of raindrops falling perilously from the heavy clouds above,
Carefully finding my individual tastebuds and imparting rich stories,
Adventures through brooks and meadows and rivers and the horizon
Leading up to the moment when freshwater meets my tongue.

A storm is coming. 
I smell the prophecy of endless rain and dominant thunder on the air,
The sharp aromas of potential disaster and the sheer power of nature
Seemingly permeate the entire atmosphere and enter my lungs,
Consuming my every breath and inviting the storm into my consciousness.

A storm is coming.
I hear the frightened rustling of immobile, damned trees,
Trembling and pleading vehemently in the increasingly violent wind,
Wanting so desperately to escape harm and avoid premature death,
But remaining hopelessly, irrevocably, guiltily stationary.

A storm is coming. 
An army of vengeful, destructive clouds closes in on my frozen body,
An array of dark, cataclysmic beasts foretelling my downfall,
Blocking out the sun and, with it, my chance of survival,
My chance of forgiveness.

She is coming.
I feel her excitement.
I taste her passion.
I smell her wrath.
I hear her fury.
I see her rage.

A storm is coming.

I accidentally broke my sister’s lego house.