Storm

A fierce excretion from the troubled skies,

The summer temper hurls its blessings hence—

Endowment of a misty anger’s lies

Set in the rougèd grey of cloudy fens;

White sparks of wrath denounce the earth-bound eyes

We use to sing the rain. These obscured hands

Filled with a fragment stench of ashen dyes—

And worship we the gods that curse these lands—

Taken as treasure, such incontinence

Sole serves to stain our ground—but dubious blessing

Recalls the binding of light’s efflorescence;

Discarded fluids of a mobile prime,

Our wetness flows with all the rage confessing—

But all these storms wear out after their time.

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