The Tempest | Poem

A lesser god
who has hunger for the world;
the awakening of the flesh
buried beneath an exile
in a prison of bones.

The fall of a kingdom came,
forged by the yoke
of some nameless stars,
without a holy light
to return to this shadow
its man.

I will be known as a tempest
and the caress of my wind
will dry your clouds,
because in my thirsty chest
the aridity of thunder rumbles
and between my legs
the lightning inhabits.

I will be the spark
of the still life
drawing my early mornings
on your skin.

Hunger for the life,
frustration slips down my face
as the most bitter honey.