The Monsoon

When the rumbling of the thunder
is an echo of the ache of your heart.
Its strings taut, puppeteering the magnificent
galactic show in the heavens.

The lightening ripples across the celestial sphere
silently wreaking havoc
much like your incessant thoughts ricocheting in the vastness
of your Mind.

Mindless pulsations, shooting up
your synapses
Soundless and devastating.

It starts small, it starts strong.
A trickle ,a soft murmur of a current
sliding up your spine
preceded by sunny minds, sunny skies.

Alas! a spontaneous hyperdrive
It resurrects your past, the lightening strike
A cross-current of rhyming stories and dead ends
A torrential downpour of the thought virus.

Your entire being buzzes.

Then the thunder rolls in
loudly, brandishing its invisible power
shaking your roots, dancing to your
heart. The Aching Heart.

Music doesn't suffice.
Rock'n'roll doesn't cut it.
Only the thundering typhoon matches your frequency
providing respite.
As, the war-torn chest lies heavy
imperceptibly thumping
only to the beat of the explosive sky.
Raring to Detonate.