Storm Cloud

The old man hissed his epithets through gritted, rotting teeth

Fuming in red and orange over the gurgling ugliness trapped inside

Confined under the mask of humanity that had formed through years

Of careful preparation.  He fooled even himself.

No one could out-scream him, out-rant him, out-anything

Louder the voice and redder the face and under his feet was nothing.

He dared not look down, stayed facing outward so all could hear him roar.

Far below him, curled into a corner

A girl lay weeping wet tears onto black cobblestones

While the wind lifted the tatters of her hair from her face.

She heard a far off thunder

Shuddered, turned her face away, and fell asleep.

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This entry was posted in Poetry by bgm1969. Bookmark the permalink.

About bgm1969

This blog is updated by a guy who’s overweight, silly, Liberal, spiritual rather than religious, infatuated with beauty and grace, musically blessed, and always changing.

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