The roaring, pummelling thunder.

Striking, lashing.

Sweeping, crashing.

I fall beneath its onslaught,

Quivering,

Shaking,

Red eyes streaming.

I prostrate myself on the cold, cold floor.

The rage above me

Brandishing its sword.

It strikes.

Again.

Again.

I lie weeping,

My youthful innocence

My only protection

Against cold, cold circumstance.

I look up into the face of the storm.

I whisper its name.

Father.

I won't go into what prompted this poem. Suffice to say, my childhood wasn't great for various reasons. Many things, however, made me who I am today, and I quite like that person. I used the things I faced in my past to make me, hopefully, a better father and husband. A better person. As such, I wouldn't change anything.

From darkness can come light, right?