Courtesy of Lucie Morel/Unsplash.
Sky’s lit today. it’s
all moody and shit
heavy with a pregnant
tint. we’re curved under the clouds
in the verge of moisture
nervous behind its refusal
to shine legibly or puncture. we didn’t
know to look or cover
up for an answer to our gutted
grumble. couldn’t say whose
turn it was to rain. we wet
our faces with the failure to speak
clouded content
or divine
its portent. we could feel
a future’s coming to spark and
fail with importance. speak and fill
our cups with thirst
to offer the god
of uncertain intent
in mislaid messaging. of
fire and delay.
of rumble and flood.