The Devil himself has a silver lining, just like every cloud does.

He wanders lonely, irrevocably beautiful if not feared for its horns,
As he was cursed to feel, and carry one burden after the other.

His existence envelopes an entirety of chaos,
Forced to contain an immense load of torment,
with which he himself is clouded with paradoxes,
seeking means for balance before he pours it out with thunder.

Sometimes the Sunset skies shove him away,
Independent of its tinged hues and beauty,
Yet when his time comes, he travels through the dark skies,
Scattering the delicate moonlight for those who feel the same way as he does.

IA

I was sinking in the cloud
searching for you
The birds were chirping
Wait, could it subdue?

I glimpsed you once or twice
in all your glory
I was sure it was love -
like a happy ending story

You poured on warmth on me
Wrapped me up with affection
Us lying, you made the confession

We danced all night
and told our stories

I woke up falling
Hit the ground
It hurt a lot, but I stood up

I saw you there,
at the end of the street
it seemed you had fallen
even harder than me

I approached you slowly,
fixed you with a gaze
I tried to touch you,
but you ran away

Following a radiant gaze,
And bringing light to the second phase.

Tracing the path of the scorching light,
Yet drooping it’s head in the mild night.

Clouds shall darken the sun dried sky,
But the trooper keeps it’s head held high

In the tempest of winds screeching loud,
The sunflower still stands, tall and proud.

Lucifer, to the Enola Gay
by Michael R. Burch

Go then,
and give them my meaning
so that their teeming
streets
become my city.

Bring back a pretty
flower—
a chrysanthemum,
perhaps, to bloom
if but an hour,
within a certain room
of mine
where
the sun does not rise or fall,
and the moon,
although it is content to shine,
helps nothing at all.

There,
if I hear the wistful call
of their voices
regretting choices
made
or perhaps not made
in time,
I can look back upon it and recall,
in all
its pale forms sublime,
still
Death will never be holy again.

Published by Romantics Quarterly, Penny Dreadful and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: Hiroshima, Enola Gay, atomic bomb, explosion, mushroom cloud, death, Lucifer, Satan, Devil, chrysanthemum, sun, moon, voices, choices

Today,
a cloud has weeped for me,
she poured her tears upon my
face and washed my wounds

People call the
sky’s tears as rain,
but my tears are salty
and dripping with pain