It's past nine.
And I'll have
the boiling seas with thunderclouds
for dinner.
A few streaks of lightning on the side.
A glass of tornado juice to wash it all down
till all that's left of the storm
is the stillness of its eye.
By the time the horizons
begin to blush pink
The grey clouds will have turned
to white balls of fluff
their edges painted in amber glow
And the stillness would have turned
to a gently flowing breeze
The moon would be poised
longingly
on the edge of the sky
Reluctant to let the night go
It is the blessed dawn
of another day
Spreading its magic wings
Trying to wipe
the stormful memories
and soar
Life lives its rainbow dreams
Swinging between starlight
and clear blue skies
Wiping the scars of the tempest
Watching the sunshine
sing its delightful songs
And fresh white blossoms
nodding their fragrance
onto the soul
Morning.
Its past nine again.
And the world has overturned
its fortunes,
breathing
in the winds of change.
MS
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