Looking.

A storm

is a storm

is a storm.

But the white!

it shifts noiselessly

Robbing us in broad daylight

of definition,

Like those misfits

with heads like balloons

Open from vacancy

No wrist for string.

It’s tiring

laying on our backs

watching the same clouds

Seeing different things.

Wake up

Take your head from the grass

before the worms bore in.

The dark.

Night visitors

coming thick and melancholy

forcing pebbles in necks

with vertebrae 

crunching the gravel

lending rope where there once was spine

cancer 

where there once was heart

lightening flashes too sudden 

to be thoughts 

falling like a deck of cards.

Now there are eyes where there once were dreams

darting inwards, eroding the dark.