Pouring Rebirth

Basically comparing storms to life, the rain of trouble is cleansing, etc, etc...

My life is like the firmament cloudless -
empty of even a wilted word to write;
or flaming phrases of ardor to plead;
nor descriptive ditties granting reading lips sight.

Some stand pleased that clouds departed be,
but I yearn after that seed atop blue expanse...
they are the beginning of beginning anew;
a spark of hope, the speck of a fresh chance.

And, oh, why should this glowering canopy away?
For then t'would it be a face lacking eyebrows...
They gather stormy across sky's countenance -
a living expression of the me morphing past now.

Spotted at a distance upon the gloomy horizon...
sensed forebodings; premonition birthing in your chest...
Testing the will of a bulb to frail flower bloomed
prevailing against approaching gale of painful unrest.

But...imagine your skin without cool drops
cleansing the pores and dead layers into non-existence;
melting your encasement off the expanding being
whose fibers purified appear with transformed brilliance.

Thrust across the mass of steel colored lace,
lightning rends your heart, tattered shred upon shred,
and thunder crashing like the shattered glass of your mind.
Belief and bosom, atop stony floor of circumstance, lie panting, near dead.

There you are, not only mind and heart
but also dehydrated soul, and starving spirit;
wallowing, to weak to rise from the clay, grime, and dirt
that will wash renewed in the shower of this tempest.

When all seems lost, and you are drowned in a torrent;
where your air is gone, and lungs still of life...
Eyes flutter open, awakening to a bathed outside
of sparkling newness commencing from the strife.

Sheets of that liquid trial may have fallen,
but while fighting that flood for every precious breath,
you were re-invented - restored to a you, none knew existed -
when through the deluge you pushed with each struggling step.