by Ricky King
Spheres of water crashing on the ground,
Foaming streams along the roadways.
Streetlights on, believing it to be nightfall.
The watchtower can no longer be seen
Against the overbearing clouds of mayhem.
A moment ago, the sun illuminated the sky
And shone the way for all wandering about
Their already frantic daily lives.
Darkness and rainfall are now all too familiar,
Stretching across miles of claustrophobic skylines.
Roar. Roar is the sound the world makes
When there’s no more peace and sun, for the time being.
It will soon come to pass, perhaps in a little while
Or a few begrudgingly long hours.
But the curiosity of the situation is that
Those hours or minutes are yet unknown
To those wandering and running throughout the land.
“Go to the lowest level of the nearest surrounding building.”
The E-mail was terrified; the announcement in a collected automated voice,
The top floor shaking with the strobing lights and screeching skies.
With no where to run off to, the streets become ponds;
Grass parkways become streams; walkways become creeks
For pedestrians to stride across, fording the rushing waters
In order to continue about their schedules.
Some run, others brace for what’s to come without hesitation.
With a broadband of bass drums crashing through the cosmos,
People still choose to run across the ponds and rivers
Darting into the vastness of the unknown
With the clouds progressively getting darker
And the rainfall increasing in intensity. the rainfall increasing in intensity.