What Shall I Cry?

Was it a dream? On my knees?
The house shuddering, rearing up into the storm.
Looming over me, a coarsening, dark funnel swallowing up the morning’s light?

Did I wake? Survive that fury? Hear that voice repeating, “Are You Ready? Are You Ready?”

Was it real? Was it Isaiah? Some random voice?
“What shall I cry when all flesh is grass, and all its beauty is like the flower of the field; the grass withers, and the flower fades?”

What shall I cry!