My soul groans

It starts slowly.

A single rain drop slides slowly down my limp arm. It's trail is finite. It splits into fractals before sending an impulse through my neurons. I shiver involuntarily, and shock imprints awareness.

It is raining.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Bullets fall from the sky and each hits its target. I know that this liquid drenching my t-shirt must be my own blood. Or perhaps it is just ground water evaporated and condensed. Either way, the storm prophesies a coming war.

Who is this lonely soldier abandoning comfort? Why do my hands lift to catch rain-blood? What am I that I would embrace thunder and lightening?

My soul groans.

Collision is such a descriptive word, but no word can capture the sound of it. If only I could tell you. Maybe cover a canvas in the correct array of acrylics in the correct composition in the correct tonality in the correct hue and put it in the correct frame. But I hear it now. And I don't know where to begin a painting.