A bright red stains the horizon, leaking into the paling sky.
The sun is a runny yolk sinking behind a lone peak that towers over everything in sight.
The Tower pulses awake, a beacon for lost travellers,
A warning for those who venture too close.

A heavy rumble rolls whence the clouds gather,
And with it; arrival of The Tempest.
The language of mountains is rain,
A voice of caution and a call to few.
The Tower launches into a torrent
Berating any and all at the first sign of weakness.

I close my eyes and rest my head against the railing, giddy with anticipation.
A few quick, short breaths, and then the darkness will soon arrive…
And then, the rain will stop.
There is the hesitant waiting,
And the moisture in the air that is clinging to my skin
With an awkwardly discomfiting possessiveness.

I open my eyes and lean over,
The waves are reaching up and they want,
I look back and everything is stretching out.
It threatens to overwhelm my sensibilities.

A pallid glow leaks from the horizon.
The sun is a runny yolk sinking behind the sky.
The Tower pulses once more, a beacon for lost travellers,
A warning for those who venture too close.