NaPoWriMo, Day 8



Lightning, stretch your jagged fingers

to the earth.  Something is calling you,

some slice of metal, some tree.

Spread your intricate lace tongue of char

across the ground fanned out from the kissing point

and the rain (if any) will soothe it.

Come, ion strike and tense air

snapping, rending. Split stone

or wood or bore straight into earth,

a conduit for angelic rage.

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