Clouds are my moving treasure, free, abundant, looming
by Anthony Dawson
as grey death or simply washing clean a slate of trials.
Hush your cries,
learn from your stolen promises;
the sun is no longer as certain as the expected death of a window
fly, and still your anger presides, your control is lost.
The grey day changes your patterns and scenes.
bringing on a thunderous clap,
streaks in the sky charged with the power of spirits, the dead,
back to haunt our physical plane.
A legion of droplets scour the ground,
and just for a moment conjure enough madness to drift away.