And the dark clouds roll across the sky.
It is beautiful, but it makes me want to die.
The beauty of those impenetrable clouds
That could swallow me whole like a funeral shroud.
Swaddle me in a mystery from which I could not escape.
Smother me in their motion, erase the memories of my fate.
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Made of sticks and stones 