Their love was rancorous; an anomalous propagation.
Her eyes were rife with storm activity,
bolts of lightning and rambles of thunder shook their hearts,
and emotions climbed. Traces of their barometer
remain to bring their tempest to a high pressure front.
He felt trapped, his hue the color of ash,
the corners of his mouth turned with concern,
her eyes as damp as the coming precipitation,
but she drew inward; her husk protecting her fragile psyche.
But relenting, he had gathered her in; a bundle of ravaged souls
seeking shelter from the tirade of their hearts.

THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle # 75


  1. I rather pictured a warm cuddle at the end of your poem. Not sure if your muse intended that or not, but I see a warm and loving conclusion. Loved this one; left me feeling warm and secure.

  2. I’ve been a relationship where the constant storms drove us into each other’s arms. It was fire and lightning followed by bliss. Too much for this old broad. I prefer the constancy my husband and I share today.
    πŸ™‚ Nice write, Walt. Thanks for playing at The Sunday Whirl.

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