I am overcast,
A sky of slate illuminated,
Gloomy yet somehow beguiling,
Backlit by an inner fire,
A sun of whimsy,
A haze of oddity,
There is a chill to my air,
A sullen and awkward disposition,
But the louds cannot bury every flare,
There is flesh and blood pumping,
Some inner effulgence eats through,
A candle in the dusk,
When you look at me,
Eyes straining,
There is a sun there,
I swear it,
It’s cloaked by grey,
But there is warmth.
It rains upon me often,
Like a migraine that won’t pass,
This heavy cloud,
It used to bother me,
Send chills all over,
Summon the darker aspects in my mind,
But no more,
Now it is just so much mist,
The sorrow is naught more than vapour,
I learned something you see,
Showers are intermittent,
And the sun always arrives anew,
Resting above me,
The rain may drench my face,
But I brought an umbrella,
And even in this sick world,
Rain doesn’t last forever.
Even in these drearier months,
As the year winds down,
There is still such beauty in the sky,
In the very air,
A titian blanket across the clouds,
And the perfume of distant bonfires,
The crisp wind swirls about you,
A cloak of winter imminent,
There is a serenity in autumn,
A composure unmatched in the years youth,
The dusk is here,
So drink in the tangerine sky,
Remember the summer times,
And feel the chill on your cheek,
Before the light finally dies.
The rain has me,
And I her,
For her I am a pluviophile,
So I don’t seek shelter,
In her mist I sit rueful,
Yet still am I embraced,
She runs over me,
Pitter-pattering,
Serenading me in raw cacophony,
Millions of notes performed on asphalt,
As we sob together,
Lament together,
Sigh Together,
Cut Together,
All in water,
All in blue.
The gloam comes,
And with it the ravages of the night,
The regrets and the nightmares,
The sweats and the guild-ridden fantasia,
And things in the periphery,
Despite the serenity of the scene,
My skull is a maelstrom,
The quiet is no comfort this eve,
But the firmament brings aid,
The clouds burst,
A million little saviours,
Sallying forth in torrents,
A soothing cacophony of blue,
Each impact a pyrrhic victory over the silence,
Every raindrop upon my window,
Like a lovers kiss goodnight.
There was a girl,
Perchance a someday inamorata,
She told me of storms,
She was afraid of the thunder,
The primal sonance of it,
The unbridled decibel of its call,
I am no fighter,
But for her I’ll hunt tempests,
So I sally forth,
On to tornado alley,
To chase the rains and bolts,
To smite them in return,
Over stream and crag I clamber,
Battered by gusts and pellets of blue,
In tinfoil cuirass and rubber boots,
Toothpick blade and bottlecap shield,
An unrequited knight,
A banner of naivete at my back,
I nip at the storms heels,
The cyclone bellows in fury,
Neon glances all about me,
Burning the soil,
I am a flea to its authority,
But still I strike,
Just for her,
So the thunder ceases,
So she no longer has to be afraid.
I do say,
When these months rear their head,
The summer sky hypnotises the world,
It appears to shift every dynamic,
Every face has that much more vigour,
And each body dances so much more fervently,
Not a cloud crosses our path,
Tans replacing scarves,
Carmine ousting the grey,
Like an eldritch entity,
Deep ultramarine and limitless in body,
Way above us,
I see its cyclopean eye,
Watching and slowly broiling,
It burns with zeal,
But means no harm,
This stratosphere spirit,
It only wishes to animate us anew,
Before the fall.
This rain must be acid,
For it burns my eyes like salt,
Forges my hair grey anew,
My painted smile is corroded,
Along with the light heart that evoked it,
Contentment withered by sulphuric clamour,
Every impact sears a new trauma,
Acerbic emotional pollution,
Misery by a million raindrops,
My skin hissing under their tumult,
All hints of joy are contaminated,
Yellowed and scalded,
The sky wouldn’t see me happy,
Drenching me would not prove cruel enough,
So I am subject to this burning at the stake,
Flaming torches in each sour drop of dew,
I’m eaten away,
Degraded to this mournful industrial waste.
A thunderstorm is a play,
Did you know that?
Those bolts of plasma that soar earthbound,
They’re actors to be perceived,
This storms dramatis personae,
The lights in the sky,
And encroaching rumbles,
They signal the curtains resonant opening,
To an applause from the very clouds,
A million little diamonds rushing down,
The bolts immediately commence their dance,
Spiralling and arcing and coalescing downwards,
Lighting up even the darkest night,
Mother Nature sends these dramas to us,
As equal parts frolic and show of force.
WorldofHarley 