The sky’s all tipsy-spritzered with rain, and I’ve
got something to say and only these three snowy
pages and a leaky cobalt pen. Is my two cents
worth anything these days? We go (lightning)
rounds, thunderclap trapped in ink and silence.
I’m scribbled, lost. Last call for sorrow, clouds.
A second offering for the post I’m hostin’ over at dVerse Poetics. Come play with me.