There’s steel slag in the clouds.
They hang in pockets like a wet handkerchief
that’s been draped over invisible towering tent poles.
A soggy dish sponge, the Terra,
limp and uninviting.
The atmosphere is close and sullen—
a placid reflection of the omnipresent mood.
Love goes unreturned,
The disposition of the day brings the answer.
And that answer is a yet another wound.