Thunder

Let the rain fall, under the thoughts of a night that tastes like day, and let me be just this. Lightening-less thunder in a day that smells like night.   Let me sing what I think, rampant and deafening to be heard over the storm, to conceal it, even. To silence the storm, if I fight hard enough. To stop the storm, perhaps.   Now I'm being ambitious, I suppose. As if I had the voice. As if I had the rage.   Where is it, I wonder? Where has my rage fled? Why am I, without rage?   Why was I, when I had it?   I cannot hear the tears of the sky anymore. I cannot hear myself. Am I gone, like my rage? Like the love my rage was? Am I gone, or just lost? Am I lost or just changed? Was I, to start with?   Was there even a thunder for that light in the sky?