An Old Electricity

I am an instance of the effect, the cataract of fire and the midnight of time. I go rummaging today, via and voilà, an intruder in snow shadow. I contain accents, establish verbs, and drive forward into a ditch without submitting. Seriously, we should talk about anything at all.

All the paying customers are abed. Some long dead emperor counts the shadows that move beneath his high dome, tosses down leaves, alarms his subjects. Last night I sensed an old electricity, said so, and sent out warmth from my hands. My last entreaty will be silent.

Once met, well met. Eerie hello-women peer at us through wet sheets. Distant dogs and distant trains. A cork in the floor comes loose.

To make is to be. In this manner, an artist knows storm essence.