Maybe it's the way the light casts down and bends
around the evergreens; the clouds descend
and infiltrate the undergrowth; the shadows crawl
along the forest floor, into membrane walls.
The gloominess exasperates
that it's Monday; and so it takes
that much more blood to climb from bed.
My heart crawls where shadows tread.
Sound is imprisoned like each day before -
the lonely drop that signals hundreds more,
all of which are indifferent to my prayers for sun,
and soon my prayers dwindle down to none.
The perfidy exacerbates
that's it's Sunday now; the levee quakes
with water moaning for God to take -
to take the bruise-colored clouds that shake -
Clouds, squeezed almost dry, remain aloft -
impervious darkness, trailing off,
(or blending, really) into the damp night shade
and horizons met where the distinction fades.
These are the days that ghosts stumble upon;
my eyes adjust to see before they're gone.
Silence hasn't changed in all these tired days
except the ringing echo that always stays
and seems to grow louder in intensity
and I wonder if the sun will ever shine on me...
...Then I wake...and it's still Monday morning;
insignificant hills shrug off the storming.
Time for me to crawl along and do the same;
such are the implications of rain.