I wait for the distant storm to rather in,
The rolling of the clouds rushing towards their destination, saturated by flashes of anger awoken, ripping through the sky and earth, melding them into one.
Forces within, forces without, rushing forward, rushing inward,
Colliding at a head in a grand clash of symphonic sound.
Quiet my soul, quiet my God,
You’ll awake the sleeping giant, restlessly turning in slumber deep.
Maybe he will always turn so, trapped in a nightmare, trapped in a waking dream.
The alternative is unknown.
But the rushing forward, inward, outward, continues, barrelling into the depth.
The crash will come, and the giants eyes open.
