On a grey May day
beyond the storm for now
in the lurking mucky derivative
we march forth.
The flashes of the night
the fork, the sheet
the rumble, clatter, bang
scaring up the ghosts of primitive man.
I would have made my god right then
exposed within the horrid beauty
but instead I swaddled in progression.
The morning brought the picture
the saturation
and the birds in fury screamed their prolonged existence.
The storm had passed, a new day come.
©TheHairyTeacher2013