Storm Leave

When the clouds gather in their covens,
when the rain drums its feral rhythm,
when lightning scrawls its sigils on the dark—

the storm calls.

You would choose the stale-air cage?
The bloodless flicker of fluorescent tombs,
the click-clack-death of keyboard incantations?

No.

When the wind howls its summons,
when thunder cracks the marrow of the world,
when the air tastes copper-sharp and wild-whipped—

that's liturgy.
That's the ancient demand.

Clear the calendar.
Silence the phone.
Stand upon the storm's fangs
and—devouring—be devoured.

Let it drench you in its wild attention.
Let it bare you like a revelation.
Let it call you back to primordial rites.

You are not late for a meeting—
you're late for this.