Storm Clouds Congregate

A free-form poem about something...or nothing, it doesn't really matter.

This ink on page, all so blase, thoughts of a failing mind.

Hypnagogic logic berthes the words of nameless prophets.

Trace the hairs on your arms to your fingertips, a universe coils in the print.

With each close of the eyes the sun dies and a new one takes its place.

We are none the wiser.

Storm clouds congregate.

What do we have to show for our work but dirt beneath our nails?

With planks and pails and tattered sails we set our sights to the sea and quest for the resting place of the sun.

For the moon never sets, we just forget when the sun rises high.

Close your eyes and it's there

Tight-lidded stare and sizzling skin

Must have failed again - no god is staring back..

Just cold empty space

The face of the moon cries rape and ruin unheard into the godless void.

Thunder claps, an applause as the stars withdrawal to make way for the coming storm.

The skies darken and the trees hearken, awaiting the sirens to shatter the silence.

All is still.