This, I think, is
thunderous silence:
this watching, this waiting
for words not falling
wearies and weakens the
warrior’s resolve;
tortured by time’s
turning unbroken
by the night bird’s
nurturing song,
thankful the thunder
thickens the air.
Washing away the
wounds of war, the
storm’s embrace a
stolen moment
echoing an age of
empty silence
where lingers the last
of loving embrace.