A cycle of storms
What are these skies that capture clouds?
and stall them still.
Billowing yet un-drifting,
like great armies mustering,
that hang too long,
un-parted, fear filled.
That turn to grey from white.
Like the weight of untold history
waiting for its capsule to split,
to rain truth on the present,
setting us free.
A cumulus of collected deceit.
the collector of future storms.
Each of us sensing barometrical change,
each awaiting a refreshing drench.
After the storm
beckon new cloud.