Waiting on weighted skies, a pale miracle
each body bathed, each cavernous ruin.
A boiling, babbling mass. All gazes on a pillar.
Lazy anticipation of inevitable love.
All of this just blind of the sun,
encased in cloud.
The fractious cloud
showered our anxious growls. "This is it, the miracle,"
while eyes grew black wide and greedy. Slipping free, the sun
drenched the twice-soaked crowd from ruin.
The throng dispersed around my obvious, venomous love,
and I was left paralyzed. Transfixed by a pillar.
This odious pillar
did little to cloud
my unavoidable, uncertain love.
It's quite easy for a miracle
I stared at the once beautiful sun,
a vulnerable pillar.
And began to understand this ridiculous ruin.
This indulgent cloud.
This poisonous miracle.
An organized dulling of love.
In groups, bodies bragged of love;
but they sliced open the sun
and out bled the yolk of their miracle.
Out of sight, stood a remarkable pillar.
In ignorant awe, encased in cloud,
they desperately constructed a hideous ruin.
but oh how it shone in the glare! This ruin.
A savage adaptation of love.
While the sky dripped with cloud,
the filtered glare of the sun
focused on a sympathetic pillar,
awaiting an honest miracle.