A poem

The following poem was written by my 13 year old son, Noah:

(the original is written in the shape of a lightning bolt. Unfortunately, I cannot figure out how to maintain that on Blogger.)


Lightning may be frightening,
A mass of clouds bundle together. The frigid weather
has never been better. For the time has come. The
fun is about to begin. Here it sound.
The sound of thunder fills the sky. Shaking the earth
below. It is the beginning of the end. It warns
the city underneath. Scaring a little fellow. It's
the crier for the mayor, the trumpeteer of a king.
The main event is coming. The clouds are
preparing. The ears of the humans are
ringing. Finally, the yellow light cuts
through the atmosphere. The spectacle is enormous.
The crowd is the witness. Eyes are gleaming.
Minds are processing. The fantastic
view above. The animals are
watching. The yellow beam strikes
a tree. Clash! The sound is alive.
People are shivering. Grass is quivering.
Some people may be sleeping. Others
weeping. The lightning strikes emotion.
Mixing horror with excitement.
Scientist say it can't strike
twice in the same spot. But,
the earth begs to differ.
It's finished. The sky is the limit. The
fraction of a second has passed.
The mind-blowing event has vanished
leaving only small cuts on the
earth's crust. The clouds will
form again showing off the
talent once more. The rumbling
has subsided. The light has
left. The clouds moved away.
But, the gleam of light
strike once more.
In the future
nevermore.
Lightning
is
frightening.