Our Skies are Crying

Rain is heavy, this wilting and waning, stressing for kicking, this petal and shame. I know an aura, but even a feeling, as to enter your heart; this velvet drum, this epoch event, those years held against us; to shift loyalties, as confronted the more, where adjectives become ligaments: this space of fury, dying as to breath, this machine restoring heartbeats. I could but panic, as to greet your eyes, this feeling of strangers; to hear a psych, swaying behaviors, a tongue that wouldn’t speak; that casual knowhow, those rudiment failures—his soul at wars to confess—this magnet light, to see for folly, this thing permeated through prose; that lavish comma, this breath as comas, to pause at each section. I died to freedom, as seeking constructs, this life as more those whimsies: our cautious souls, inverted wildly, to have witnessed so many bars; this inner scoundrel, that outer genius, those moments, at tears, with beliefs. It shouldn’t be swans, such fancy webs—this outer goodtime. I told a friend, to watch his clothing, as to alter his reality. I think he heard, beyond those woes, seeking for wisdom; this feral god, albeit, a soldier, at war with Father: that woman’s brains; this fit of volts; this literature by stars. I claimed an arrow, as rebuking cupid, this flame by virtues; as seen to perish, this welkin land, as decisive as cobras; to have lived life, this false impression, a man of so many tears; to feel this love, engrained in mystics, to ask a yogi her name; this wealth of rain, to plummet windshields, this pavement as metaphor; where love was grand, those first few months, as to construct those following years. I love a swan, those almonds as smoked, to feel as demons revolve—this land of fishers, this pool of dangers, as to have entered without knowing; this vault of pressures, this womb of madness, that essence by birth a tornado; but more to love, this powerful force, as to forget those hells.

I broke with silence, abated by humility, this thing breaking forth; to wrestle daily, this temper short—surprised they wouldn’t see; this inch by inch, this market of trials, this place by scar his virtue; that arête, this voice of Greeks, as to flounder his inheritance. It could be love, as to avert catastrophes, this heart looming by nature; as unaccountable, as given a pass, to see this behavior again; where this is life, seated at offices—the same approach a million years; as if for blind, this time and again, flooded where she couldn’t stand. I know a song, this silent woman, as to appease the beast; this shadow of rabies, as rabid souls, a bit torn for mercy; that inner channel, speaking at raindrops, this petal as glorious: our outer shakes; this tremble for hearts; that deep tsunami; to court a wolf, as seeming so lowly, to feel for good that rescue. It shouldn’t be, as yet it is, this place manipulative—that grace of stallions, at wars with mares, to overlook so much; but this is passion, this wildlife sex, to believe it never was; as yet for souls, this repeated mission, to see those eyes time and again; to reckon softly, as born to sin, this woman his soul in jars.