Call of the Elephant - A poem of anger management gone to ego inflation.

Mom will probably invoke
that dreaded Rule One
as the towers rise
in the sky above
tempting me to dance.

The Elephant stalks today
calling me to cavort,
with black clouds rising
over the mountain ranges
yet to drift near.

Do those thunderheads soar
in response to moods
I feel down here?
Or is my anger
fueled by resonating rumbles?

Above me they rise,
like angry gods' fists,
as air spirits toss
their spite to mortals,
and occassionally, the Finger.

I feel their call,
to dance under anvils
where Thor's hammer falls
and lightning races beneath,
something I've always known.

Am I so powerful?
To raise those tempests?
Or is that vanity,
twisting me around wickedly
on her fickle fingers?

I need those storms
to break across me,
cleansing my soul again
of worry and stress,
leaving my slate clean.

But I know not,
even deep within me,
if I call them,
or they beckon me
to a doom fore-ordained.

Watching, I feel turbulence,
not just amid atmosphere,
but that dark place
others still have hearts,
calling out in anger.

Break, oh might storm,
let that old beast
flick his tail now,
towards me or away
that I may know....
... is it just me, or real?

15May2013 - Dyfedd Rex between lines of boomers forming still.