I stood at the window hoping it was the door.
I could see skies of grey and woeful rainfall—
I breathed out and the fog was the fog on the glass.
This ache in my heart, where can I find more?
Through the TV I heard your sobs and turned to listen:
“Don’t go looking for marigold out in the field.
You’ll pluck something that feels too real.”
All along the fence, isn’t it apparent!?
Rest In Peace and roses, too. In the night,
candlelight—I turned it off.
Out there, simple men roam, and I can see
their button-ups and tank-tops. They hobble from foot to foot
searching for the enemy between the trees.
All the while the mist hangs low, the droplets bead,
and all is melancholy.
To use my poetry, please contact me (view profile for email). White-space best viewed on desktop.
The Coming Thunderstorm
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