The poet in his corner, the sky beckons him
He notices the clouds are much darker, much dim
It falls on his head, he turns toward the light
His pen falls upon the ground, his parchment takes flight
He's lost his only medium, but yet he sits still
He's waiting for the perfect moment, the act of God's will
It's dripping down the drains, crowding on the panes
It's pumping through his heart, racing through his veins
A light erupts and rapes the sky, the sun hides its face
The rain starts to pour and pour, the beauty lifted from this place
The ground opens up, the flames of the core rip and tear
The poet, not even scather sits as if there's nothing there
The elements fill the space in which the poet opened his eyes
He writes a couple of lines in the creases of his mind...

"The river flows and flows

as the wind continuously blows
The fire burns the hands of a man
who surely didn't know"