Grim sky looms gray, a sickly, writhing void
inside of one. Nightmarish bright gray days
& that low-pressure with which they're alloyed
replace habitual disciplines with haze
as harsh self-criticisms smirk & feud.
No progress & no product is enough
on such a day, with static gray imbued;
one's very soul departs one in a huff.
Our grander days of gliding, godlike clouds
proclaiming an exact munificence --
recalled to mind -- oppose these banshee shrouds
of a particular deluge... Intense,
far, warming, this light yoke of hours starts.
A whole begins to coalesce from parts.
