Letters to the Sun

Thunderheads

On a warm, sunny day the clouds will appear; a tempest amidst the calm.
Storm clouds rumbling as they go bumbling, slowly cover the sky.
The sun once bright, now like night, struggles to Pierce the veil.
Layer by layer, time after time, the clouds seem to always prevail.
No silver lining, only thunder and lightning, gifts that these clouds gladly bear
Thunderheads carry their dark grey burdens, blotting out any hint of blue.
Raindrops fall amidst thunder's call,
A cascade of afternoon dew.
The tumbling globes fall from heaven, like balls of silvered glass.
Drop after drop, again and again, the water impacts the ground. Those fragile jewels, once clean and clear, now shattered amidst the sound.
The sun weakly shining, dimmer and dimmer, stops trying to break the clouds.
The day once bright, now Apathy shrouds, emits no more than a glimmer.
No matter how blue the sky or how bright the sun, the storms will choke out the light.
Bringing showers that drown out the flowers, a day overcome by night.
Mornings pass into evening, as each day runs its course. Nary a pretty sunset, the beauty of which are lost.
The youth and life of spring, eternally beaten by winter's frost.
Sometimes day, always night, never a single star. Interminable as an Ouroboros, dark the light never mars.
For the sky is my mind, the ground my thoughts, covered by storms of doubt. Never feeling, always waiting, waiting for the sun to come out.