more.bad.poetry

where awkward private thoughts become public knowledge.


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The End of June

For the first day in a week, she looked at the sky and saw the storm was clearing. The horizon, though peppered with small dark clouds, leaked sunshine and blue skies. The ground was still wet and muddy. She picked her way carefully from the front door to the end of the driveway. She looked up and frowned at the clouds still in the sky; it should be stormy or not. The audacity of the indecisive weather!

But the rays of the sun and blue patches kept catching her eye as she worried over the dark clouds. After a moment she caught herself looking at the golden blue chunks. They slowly grew as she watched. She was amazed by the gentle creeping of the clean sky; the way it mixed into the dark like paint mixes, slowly lightening and transforming the canvas into something else altogether. She sat on the fence and tilted her head back as far as it would go, transfixed by the metamorphosis of the storm into something precious. After a while she forgot the clouds were there and let the sun beams warm her pale skin.

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Anticipation.

patience is not a virtue i possess.
i’ve found, though, that when it’s necessary –
when there’s something truly extraordinary waiting –
that it’s easier than i’d imagined.
it’s simpler because for some reason i believe
in all the things you said, without question.
it’s something about the calm of your voice
and the sweet and serious of your eyes
that makes me feel warm.
like i’m wrapped in a blanket on the lawn
in a cool July, knowing that soon the
most brilliant fireworks will light up the sky.