Under the Drunken Sky

Where do,
these originate,
Prickly pangs,
of lasting regret,
Like the disappearing,
cotton threads,
of her tattered,
and frayed dress,
As she stands,
mute and dismayed,
Outside the iron,
of the locked gate,
She searches,
for absent feelings,
Inside the confines,
of the locked up gate.

The drunken sky,
then screams,
In a thundering,
voice like dreams,
that were withered,
in searing pain,
of screams,
and lightining rain,
Does this storm,
that comes,
announce a victory,
or a sullen trounce,
When all who scatter,
no longer remain,
Does anything matter,
in this pouring rain?


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