A Storm Is Brewing

The gray sky hue, so blue — of glad things there are few. No sun to warm my bones, which ache and crack with groans. The sod of rain deemed soft and my flood of ink scoffed at the knock knock knock. I’m apt to be mad this time. Bring back the pale of light. With it bring back my sight. Tell me helps on its way — that the storm will not stay. It laughs with scorn, each drop falls hard, and fast — no stop, as I plead to my God. Does He see through this fraud? I’d drop on knees to beg, Sir, but for my weak leg, for the peg taps my past — the dreg of drink will last.