Storms await, beckoning important
forms on clouds who are of the sort
who rain in the night
crying down their very essence to the ground,
which becomes proud
of attention paid as liquid lays upon its brow.
Soaked into the fields of sorghum
stolen away from the surface now,
they trickle down
getting to the roots of world building growth.
And then it grows,
and the stems upward and breathing become exposed.
While the mystery leaks through pipes that creak and moan
we are not sleeping soundly or alone.

And my oh my how it this exploding
come to think might it grow a soul
that sings and projects
filling up the hearts of many beacons shine
causing to blind
all those who hide their hearts inside their minds.
And where are we while this would be happening?
Huddled together in the bus stop cold,
the gray of the sky
splitting open for that trumpet bearers call.
Come one and all
see how your unknown weapons have caused this all!
While the mystery becomes writing on bathroom stalls
we are not sleeping soundly or at all.