Not Even a Storm Cloud Will Stay

Meaning eludes midnight's lament,
as constellations leave their welt
lined upon the star scattered skyline

Gravity shackles with iron grip
aligning chains to Orion's belt
now resting in a milky row confined
as if dealt across an oceanside
wading the obsidian tide
pelting midnight's shoreline

Galaxies are made from ripped sheets,
pieces of torn cloth, and felt
sewn together with Poseidon's trident

He spoke expanding entropy
with a voice rasped in depraved sickness,
washing his hands guiltlessly
before lifting a jet black awning
over top the veil of existence

These feet drag on
dancing in lonesome's brigade,
when music grows like a desert marigold
bursting cement to meet the rain,
breaking free through a concrete slab
growing out its swagger and mane

A siren's lure has kept me skewered
on the end of a driftwood dagger,
bleeding I stand profoundly for
desire is latched to my stature like
the feathers on a bird

Hills of fire beg for rain,
why must the clouds forsake them,
by roaming among plains
dripping mire in several tethered chains
strapped between two mountain ranges
like the meadowlark inside a cage

By light of the moon, foreboding gloom,
shredded cotton rushes through
Lightning strikes inosculate,
stretching from rows of falling rain,
blotting out the sunlight with a
monochrome shadow
washing out of every storm drain
yet not a single flower blooms

Nothing green will ever soothe
such an arid desolate city
where not even a storm cloud will stay

I wonder how they escape
Oh, I wonder where these storm clouds
drift so swiftly swaying,
while thunder hounds
on leashes yelp,
howling and strictly baying

So grey and still the cyclones pose,
farther and faster away,
not guaranteed to blow this way
or find their twilight
desert rose