They say the rain will come,
once the lightning sculpts a path.
One spark, to rattle the rocks and jar
the drizzle from its
- slumbering abode.
My vengeance, it’s the rain,
sharpened; cut by the thunder.
Lingering, lodged in the clouds -
and when that rain pours down
you won’t feel it.
You’re just going to get
soaked.
A/N: Since this poem didn't meet the 100 word requirement, I'll write this note as a filler. I don't really know what to write here. I don't really want to say much about the poem at the risk of sounding pretensious, but no matter, I've already got my 100 words.