The thunder knows how to sing from its chest.
The grass knows how to rise from the decay of everything.
Lightning always seems to strike at the tallest peak,
and I'm still sitting, waiting, and missing.
The stones know peace, of which I nothing,
and even my own bones understand their purpose more than I do.
But I guess the sky is undependable,
Densely clad with variability and misunderstanding
and we have that in common.
I guess we're the same.
Everything.