Shapes Of Clouds

At dawn, a fibrous bulb shreds under invisible fingers of rasping drafts leaving an amputated calve of a woman, stilettoed and alone, dissipating from the heel into a sea of crimson and orange.

Scoops of varnished clouds wobble in a bowl like heaps of immaculate foam sliding and being charred black underneath by burning sins of earth’s cruel stares.

Cupped in a blue-grey dome are scatterings of young but hard-boiled walls of dreadfully enslaving clouds, wet as dirty sponges.

Then swoops into this bath of turbulences a cluster shaped like ferocious faces of sand storms, going to join some throng black as tar, drooping menacingly in wait for heat convulsing from ransacked rain forests and raging oceans afar.

Creamy rays slip through mouths of caves, a temperamental glow and godly light whistled through a storm brewing.

Streams then flow as though carved by a blind brush stroking viscous glues suspended, blinking sheets that bellow with deft rumbles marching.

Above aligns symbols of more secret rooms made of arteries of lightning flashes infected with each other’s paranoia, yet bearing promises of a downpour to waste fields ploughed by calves that perished during droughts and famine.

A chanting navel in the sky roaring towards far off lands, heralded by whales swimming in black expanses groaning yet nursing their fading infancy.

Unrestrained by time and never retracing their histories, they morph into an infant’s legs surrounded by sheets of white powder rippling with wind-kissed dunes, a heave of wetness drifting away to give way to phosphorescence.

And as dusk sheds its ochre, gloomy clumps of cotton hover over earth’s dusty eyed children on final rounds of hop scotch, a black and silver chest of a giant is floating with a hole where a heart ought to have been wrenched.

Unfailing slivers of lightning course over crevices and through creases, a wolf suckling random puffs of maps of fluffy lands under a holy moonlight.

The moribund canopy seals over leaky tin roofs and raving dust smothering smoke plumes stealing the color of night, yet at play is a cacophony of sprinting whips of glowing threads snaking through mountains in the sky.

With the sun’s final strut gone without notice of soaked feet running amok muddy pools, heaviness falls on timid thoughts of those lulled by pattering droplets on window panes or wooden boards.

Then there's a gleam that shatters this vast, black dome, the starry host that renews its fictitious luster holding its illusions, oblong, if not mushroom-shaped.

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