Meaning eludes midnight's lament,
as constellations leave their welt
lined up in the star scattered skyline
Gravity shackles with iron grip
aligning chains to Orion's belt
now resting in a milky row confined
Galaxies are made from ripped sheets,
pieces of torn cloth, and felt
sewn together with Poseidon's trident
then dealt across an oceanside
wading the obsidian tide
pelting midnight's shoreline
He spoke expanding entropy
with a voice rasped in depraved sickness,
washing his hands guiltlessly
before lifting this jet black awning
over top the veil of existence
These feet drag on
dancing in lonesome's brigade,
music grows like Kentucky crabgrass
bursting cement to meet the rain,
breaking free through a concrete slab
growing out its swagger and mane
A siren's lure has kept me skured
on the end of a driftwood dagger,
bleeding I stand profoundly for
desire is latched to my stature like
the feathers on a bird
Hills of fire beg for rain,
why must the clouds forsake them
by roaming among plains
filled with mire and several tethered chains
strapped between two mountain ranges
like a meadowlark inside a cage
By light of the moon foreboding gloom,
shredded cotton rushes through with
lightning strikes inosculated
stretching from rows of falling rain,
blotting out the sunlight with a
monochrome shadow, and
washing out every storm drain
yet not a single flower blooms
Nothing green will ever soothe
such an arid desolate city
where not even a storm cloud will stay
I wonder how they escape
Oh, I wonder where these storm clouds
drift so swiftly swaying
while thunder hounds
on leashes yelp
howling and strictly baying
So grey and still the cyclones pose,
farther and faster away,
not guaranteed to blow this way
or find their twilight
desert rose
Storm Clouds Ride the Pressurized Air
