It storms. The sky, lit blue and frightening.
The good dog, still dead; skull in a duffel.
Tomorrow's ozoned humidity, tinted with viridity.
Silence bottlenecks and the rain, unstopped.

It storms. The night is high and near and wise.
The electrical hum within the walls, lullabyes.
Tomorrow is an eddy in a dream that resonates:
Resign yourself to fate; fate yourself to life.

Lies. I am a half-drawn sword. My irises rot
with balletic thought upon grapevine and fire.
Justice seems the lucidity of snow and winds
that cello. What do you know, analysed; do you?

With what inertia intellect possesses, I go:
A laser thru morning fog; an epitaph of nonce.