Mercer's Poems
Whether

The brewing mess, clouds do muddle
A fear filled, dark and brewing puddle.
The worlds collide. 
A Roar.
Revolt.
The Wrath falls as a vicious jolt.

Ominous.

A thunder scream,
a blue-breathed fire
a sense of danger, power, ire.
The tears, the clouds the wind conspire
Summoning their best.

The Tempress’ eye began to glaze
seen through the wailing, snowy haze.
No heavens’ burst, no dead did raise
as the tempest slumped it’s sorrowed head
no power it wrought
but wept instead.

Even then heavens wept
bitter tears cascading down.

A pox upon this sodden town.

The ark a dream
the dead does drown 
this mortis ridden morn.

 

So, what dreams today?
Of UV rays?
Of hips, hoorays.
Of gaiety, and nice.

The corruption of optics
and neurons
makes it seem so far away
in some private paradise.

 

The clouds en masse conspire to gather
amalgamate to form a lather.

A party, group, a clique or, rather
a  wake of mourners weeping harder.

 

The chill winds creep, less weep,
more wail. 
And sweep aside the rain and hail.

A sqealing pity, a boo-hoo gail.
A razor sob, your strength it flails

‘til gnawing icy bone.