Gray

It’s a rainy and downright miserable day.  

The sky, draped in parameters of the grayest quays, decides to travel slower than design would abdicate.  Shades of the fallen emanate from beyond. There is a somber eloquence that, at times, can have its charm.  However, rarely does the journey take that long.  Smoked inside, to avoid the frazzled delicacies it denotes upon, our irrationality merges with the impatience birthed from within.  Cataloging our every movement, as if the walls become the audience, to the spectacle we put on.  

Forever we languish, in the sorrow of the subtle sound, and wait for its crescendo to paint its song.  Rumbling from the overpass, on most days magnified by the swift echoes it instills upon, today shadowed by the cataclysmic sacrifice gray skies offer on, days that mire in contemplative thoughts.  We rue the sprite that casts this deplorability upon. 

Ceramic vases, jars of clay, born hollow, but made that way. 

Flowers insert into voids, flourish when droplets caress joy.  Emotions of the wind, when soft, a wafting passes through.  It connects to nasal passageways, spells aromatic poems into the fragile arms of pawns.  Delight we take, from such minute epiphanies; from the molecular embankments we're gladly stranded upon.  It is a delight that is torn asunder, as winged worlds collide in jagged flaunts of plunder.  To which the spiders cry, their bed has been split, their trellis scattered and left to drift.  One quick look back, ill afforded, yet in the tear, drooling from the arachnid's eye, a world remains through the trail it defines.  Goodbyes are sent from midair, ensuring it jumps before the flowers wilt in despair.  Connecting to petals firm and quick, posturing their will upon their fragrant lips.  Nothing but a fragment remains, which is all the will’s become, lost forever in a moment without sun. 

Filaments cemented down, burrowing teeth into weathered gums, a travesty of solitude has such become.  Yet in times of weakening, war-torn stories quickly absorb. The atmospheric pressure folds, bending in directions we never would’ve thoughtfully supposed.  Our hours weigh upon us, like the relegated wisdom of a traffic officer, amidst broken steel, gridlock and the vulgarities they spawn. Only puddles, large and round, small and square to splash.  Only puddles, composed of, gelatin, or so is the story the mind disclosed.  Black and Blue, flashing signals strong and bright, wishing he was in between a street fight, between the world's deadliest gangs.  Would've been easier to stomach, easier to get through.

A return, to the gray skyline, offers insightful adequacy.

Graphite shards shade us, outline our aura with their silver tongues.  Commiserating, mingling in, fleeting shallow breaths begin. To the right are the brothels, of the unhinged incendiaries, waiting for the architecture to align.
A design lusted for, sought after since a plagued adolescence, spent despising the facades and the faces, of the everyday and the every one. Willing strength, they have, yearning for a bomb to end; to send the grandest smoke signal high, for all to read, all to see, to paint the clouds in char and ash.
So they saw the clouds, and basked in their unholiest of premonitions.  It was a dream unlike this: the precise angling of currents' flow, of a lightning strike, those incurrent surely felt. The bolt  draws the prawn to the surface, where safety nets look to control them.  It lures a bath-robed army, out from their security blanket, and into the moistened night, powerless, watching as the furies danced with the embers they create; two-step, then waltz, upon every ounce of ownership the outcasts keep.

In the aftermath, the bugs still linger, keen eyes peeled,as a life of misery, a world of dismay, is summated, by the collection baskets, the particulates of biographies scorn, laying destitute, for contemptuous eyes and jaded hearts, of the deliberating anti-man, to copulate amongst the crags and scabs of ragged and weary women and men.

The clouds are not moving like they often do. 

The clouds are dark and surrounding.  
The wind is heavy and swift.
It escapes the head, only to travel back around, perhaps through time, waiting for the off-guard peculiarity you will, someday be blinded by.


The arch of rumbling seems to arise someplace to the south. 
Either the worst is over, or the wickedest has yet to come.

Sparklers lift the veil of night, illuminating the gravest rhymes superimposed upon the darkest of soliloquies.


  Sheltering the shadows, as to not give false notion, or to encourage encored performances. The verisimilitude is staggering. The battery seems to extend forever.

Forever is an exaggeration.  

Nothing can sustain such an appetite.  

No force is built to survive.  

The mourning shall come.  

The tides will shift.  
Hairs will part again.


There will be much recovery.  Stories will not grow periods in their sleep. The mortician may be smiling as dollar signs echo, but restoration will be a job incurred by all.

All the trees will grow new leaves. 
The unfortunate collected, reused in the creative pursuit of something novel, perhaps essential to persistence. 
All the streets will be swept.  All the arterial interference will be cleared.


Some new political scenario shall distract those affected.
Focus will adapt
Current commotions shall become carpet rides, for one and all.

And all will be forgotten, perhaps recalled in memoir, maybe gospel story, all the activity, all the attention this night has spawned, all forgotten, as if the dismal tribulations of a devastating scourge never occurred, dancing children will placate posters, teenage first-love shall enter the second act, blossoming the third with high definition denouement and diligently constructed charm in the front and rear view.  

However:

All will be remembered:
For those injured.
For those forced to bury a friend, a brother
For those forced to part ways with a lover
For those who arduously led the clean up
For those living still in shelters
For those with no one that gets them
For those with problems stemming much earlier
For those....
  A pretty picture will not release them.


   The burdens they feel will still weigh upon them. 


It’s for the soldiers of normalcy,
To which the decree of politeness swear. 
Don’t discuss and it’s like it never happened.  
That will be the chorus, 
and after all, right or wrong,
 No one really remembers the refrain.

Then there is the other side, the opposing view.  That we need those who push and motivate those incapable, or in a positioning fetal to where they should be.  These sorts encourage prosperity.  They foster growth.  Yet tactfulness is often what they lack.  Therefore they become the motivating force, but not as they intended.  (Question:

What's the best way to stop a war between two dominating factions?

Answer:  Unify them with hatred.  Create an enemy, so strong, so powerful, so universally unbecoming, a force that threatens both factions.  Use their hatred as the unifying thread.  Distract them.  Force a truce.
Become the martyr.
Unify.

And to think, the weatherman projected a wonderful summers eve.