I hear the thunder meddling
its way among the raindrops
that permeate through sunlight
that the weather is a motif
for God's emotional prognosis.
God is but a seaman;
he and I stammer upon the same boat.
Our existence makes a pair
of helplessly hanging doppelgangers,
orbs of confusion that contract
whiplash with every turn they make.
Two repressed housewives
that put all their hopes and dreams
in a shit-stained smile.
This collision of light and malevolance
is but His way of symbolizing
my shame-patronized indecision
in a way that makes people tear up
at the joy of beauty.