My soul feels colicky,
wants to cry,
wants to fall in sheets like rain,
and patter against you.
Yearns to drape itself,
across your alter,
like sacrifice.
It's name on my tongue is thunder.
Wet and booming.
Counting the seconds,
between rumble and strike.
Precipitation,
and the breadth of night,
seem as chronic as thought.
Restless.
Driven by some chemical altercation.
Molecules shifting,
spinning weather vanes,
in the drowning current,
of silence.
It is deafening,
The progress of discontent,
That resounds within these walls.
Painting instant pictures,
like slideshow noir.
Gaudy and random,
divining art,
from discord.
The rhythm is slate gray,
cast against the depths of night.
The clouds loom,
in time lapse procession.
They speak of ***** films,
of the serial killer,
inside my head.
That sick,
ranting ****,
That drones on in tongues,
at 4 am!
That throws books at the wall!
But it's only the rain,
gleeful-mad on the tin roof.
Spouting hostile jargon,
intermittent,
with the sad soliloquy of flush.
Steady,
The somber hymn of my sacrament.
This offering,
layed before you like ***.
Profound,
clinging,
desperate.
In dark hours I writhe,
distended,
by the invasive girth,
of this storm inside my head.
