crayola sunsets

Peaceful Warfare in Ten Minutes with Many Metaphors.

[spoken word]

the beginning of the mini monsoon
brought me from the shelter of my room to the front porch.
thunder boomed from
a purple-gray sky as
overhead clouds cried onto the houses that sat in a row across the street, diligently waiting
for the end of the storm to arrive.
the bright socks that covered my feet
glowed on the porch,
where the clouds' tears retreated
as they neared my toes.
i suppose it's easier to focus on beauty's many forms
when a war wages on in the atmosphere above our unbeknownst souls.
on the other side of downpouring no-man's land
is where the row of houses stand,
protected by small beacons of light that
brighten the darkness from fallen liquid bullets.
the humid sticky air clings to the problems that trouble my mind,
binding themselves to my worries and stress
and relieving me of them and all of their mess.
atleast, for the time being.
see, summer storms are teeming with contradictions and opposites,
and perhaps it might be okay in the end, right?
my metaphors are getting ahead of themselves.

inhaling the scent of Nature's spilt sobs – i mean, rain drops –
i remember the smell of water absorbed boards and planks of wood on a homemade deck.
i check the time.
five minutes has passed.
the mass amount of cloud battle is over with,
but i still can hear the patter of rain down the outdoor drain pipe - i mean gutter.
lightning's boom begins to stutter,
cotton balls sputter out the last of the liquid they've collected and interecepted from the dust of the earth's crust.
"I must go inside."
"Five more minutes?"
Stillness overtakes me, makes me forget,
but yet I feel like I'm carrying some weight or debt left over from before the wet rain.
I step inside, go back into my sheltered room,
and hear the loud boom of thunder once more.
I've closed the door, and the solemn silence is over;
the storm is still raging, and
war is still waging.