Storms are so many, but the inners are the worst, because you can't take refuge from them. Storms also can call fears, or are fears part of the storm?

Rain, pouring on empty streets at night,
a ghost looking out from an unlighted room,
a Polyphemus hiding behind a top window,
a spy with insomnia taking account
of everyone that dares to pass below,
suddenly the traffic’s lights turn to red
and the rain rivulets running on the gutter
will turn to mimic the color of blood.

A solitary walker goes by, soundless,
like gliding by, bad news on rubber shoes,
a reminder of unforgettable times past
when at midnight came a knock on the door,
and the icicle of fear stabs down the spine
the body shudders and isn’t from the cold,
everything is watching as he goes by,
like he was the malign part of the storm.

The skies mood are unforgiving black,
a burp from above, a deep menacing growl
with a following flash of celestial anger and
down to the earth the fiery dragon’s tongue,
thunder and lightning, man will be shaken
when confronting the fury of the storm,
yet, if he ventures going inside the shadows
he will be a menacing unidentifiable form.

The traffic lights turn amber and then green,
the asphalt dresses in a wet emerald gown
which seems to soften the fury of the rain
suddenly becoming a peaceful drizzly fall
as the wind enters with its drying breath
empty wet streets and leave dried corridors,
on a top window, hiding Polyphemus eye
shows no more fear, the walking man is gone.