Cannonfire, Timpanis, Tires

Storm fronts bloom like flowers,
decay slowly as they die.
Clouds are building up like towers
reaching far into the sky.
I am small and coward and I burrow as to hide.
If they can’t see me, they can’t find me
they can try but i’m too tricky.
Boom like cannon fire, timpanis, tires;
they’re screeching but won’t stop in time.
Fading from white to cobalt and sapphires,
close my eyes.
Void of color and I shudder
like every camera shutter.
Cut them shorter, here’s no order,
rhyme, or reason.
It’s disorganized, or is it?
No real limit to the damage it brings with it,
or the offspring it delivers.
Ages quickly, rushing rivers.
And I can write, ponder, conspire
how to try and stoke their fire
but oh why would I desire such a thing?
When you’re desperate just to live another day.
As I carefully consider my meaning.
Never been close to the best at explaining.