Everyday the weather is the same.

Calm light blue tranquility, a child’s blanket,

slowly invaded by ambiguous grenade smoke

which only grows over time, making me sick,

casting my hope in a grey and damp pallor.

The ashy fog barks. And barks. Rumbles softly. Rumbles loudly.

The sparks are like gunshots, the sky Satan’s smeared portrait.

My ears become an explosion. Light speeds over my eyes.

I run into the house like I run into my mind, whenever it storms.

The rain falls fast and wet as I sigh relief.

The thunder may rage, but the water doesn’t admit it homage.

Yet before I get used to the clear runny wall,

the sunlight swallows the stream and glows.

Back out on the gravel I look up:

a bridge of colors arcs from the smoke.

Though I only discern some of them,

I know life has many shades,

like the smooth…