Storm

The beauty of a storm.

Beauties come and go, with some emotion whilst others drift on with no flow. Till the soft dew of morning mist greets the groggy crack of dawn, till the swift and tranquil pool a-loft the warm blue sky fades to its orange rufescent streak up so high, it is that we take into account the beauty of such a natural world. Yet, sometimes such delights go unforeseen, as what is noticed and so very keen becomes hindered as a result of the odds presented by life itself. A peak at such misery, we see in the faces of debased places - people tend to lose their sense of the aspects of life. They can no longer convey the sites of such intricacy and that, my friend, is when we call upon the storm.
A warm tint of shallow mist splashes against refined roads and buildings. It taints the skin of those lost within, bringing about a cleanliness with its mistaken outlook. “This is gloomy weather, not worthy of adornment like the softest feather,” comes a whisper from a being held in mutiny. Yet he watches discretely, an unusual smile spread silently across his crinkled face. It is in rhythm, an anecdote given straight from the heavens, to replenish those at their weakest of will - to befriend those that were left to conceal themselves in pure vigilance, toppled with a distraught looming feeling of everlasting paranoia. The moment it was visible, its rainy fingertips casting down a casket of holy water, worries came to their halt, replenished those saturated in foulness with a new coating of hope. It is when the storm rolls in that the grime of past dirt bathe those in a fresh sheet of cleansed water to allot a newly found state of mind. The once antagonizing grip of depressive matters or stressful encounters are washed away at the first wince of rain. The anger that plagued the optimism which once had a flow so eloquent is to be banished, as to return the innocence that accumulated the bright aspects of life. All misdeeds flushed away in the brink of the moment as we are replenished with the tears from heaven that purified our skin and mind.
It is when rain is cast down in abatement that we see glossy eyes turn to look at the endearing outdoors, a once petrified feeling of shallowness that diluted hope, with a gradual feeling of remedy. Outside they wander, arms widened to the soft sweep of rain trickling onto the distressed beings, alast. All worries to shrivel and once again substitute a new leaf of brittle hope to reconstruct to a form of glory and confidence.
When the silent nights make way to the place we know as earth, the gentle clap of thunder can be heard. To follow, comes the humble tap of rain against the smooth windowpane as a classy citizen lays beneath an earthly sheet of wool. Intricate taps and soft claps of thunder can widely be heard from hereunder - to put to sleep those in struggle, in need of a good night’s rest with the gentle company of benign droplets looming in the distant. Now this, my friend, is the beauty of the storm.

Author's Note

Originally a creative essay due for prompt grading, it ended up finding its way on to my lovely evernote account and then on to Writer's Cafe. Feedback is always appreciated!