it is the performance you gave,

that always begins a tale.

a storm behind a battered gate,

whipping open with a gale.

wind funneled into lungs for an alto,

screams of anguish in legato.

glorious lights flash through their pain,

the clouds sound drums to gloat.

but the pain is voltage,

electricity hurdling through an cloudy vale.

the smell sweet as gelato,

the rain settling against me like aloe.

the dance of light we love,

with a waltz of rain we sing for an age.

but we do not test her ego,

for she also holds the gavel.