Skies of pewter
Tarnished, worn.
Heavy, burdened clouds fat with expectation.
Cloaked drops shielded, bound.
Marching band of thunder
Paparazzi lighting
Knife slice peeling back.
Burst of cerulean, azure, celeste
Purpose
Prediction
Promise of more.
Had she lost herself slowly, a storm building in the distance? It seemed sudden to her, a thunderclap downpour of circumstances contrived to dull her fire, her reds and oranges and yellows pulled from her; replaced with steel shavings and dirt and ash. Had she allowed this? Had she welcomed it? Draining of self and sunshine? Guilt holds her, glues her to this colorless landscape, gray of an institution. Pleading, praying, imploring to all the gods to show her the path, the golden road to the technicolor future.
About the Creator
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Blossom
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By Talia Devora6 days ago in Fiction
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