Lost Art

Flood waters rose with a vengeance.
Winds of change came in gusts of raucous, harsh reality.
I clung to my pen, my sword.
I whispered the words I needed to say, repeating them to remember.
Lightning struck mercilessly and I covered my ears in fear of the thunder to come.
The earth trembled as though trying to shake me loose, but I held on.
Shrieks of wind and panic rushed past me in a thunderous flash.
Letting go was a silent oasis I ventured towards in my mind.
But I stayed.
Something would not bend although all of me is broken.
Writing is a lost art, and I am the sole survivor of the storm that brought it down.