What The Thunder Said, Vol 4 - Page 23

And his exposed elbows.

The clouds parted to reveal a sky

As electric as his light blue eyes

As electric as his long-anticipated stare, he turned to me.

Springtime was hardly springtime

When the rain drops began to pelt

The rotting log on that black sand,

Shaped like a reclining human, soaking a sun that wasn't there.

His low-spoken words overshadowed by the

Cicadas' chatter, soon to be

Empty shalls of of caramel color clinging to

One of many blooming trees

In this bay, vegetation forever blooming

And every soul never blooming.