For the last hour I've been listening to the soft murmur of falling rain, and of thunder. Not real thunder and rain though, fake sounds: electronic simulacra of electricity. I even added a touch of crackling campfire to give it that authentic, natural, outdoorsy feel. There's something soothing about the rain, the rolling sound of thunder. That sudden, hollow boom, the roar of plane engines exploding, of the sky tearing itself apart. There's a madness to it, a savage, depraved ferocity, powerful and destructive, incendiary. Angry air molecules, seething and teeming, ready for rampage, wage war behind dark clouds. Raindrops hiss insurrection as they fall forever downward; little liquid leaflets warning of impending detonation.
A great, unseen sword stabs at the sky,
Cutting down grey, pregnant clouds.
They cry out
A chorus of lions as
They're claimed.
Pain so sharp it fractures the dark
A streak,
A flash,
A bright running tear.
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