The Cloudy Sky

It was a cloudy sky,

The sun was setting fast,

A patchwork of maroon colored lines,

Beautifully tanned,

Varying colours with a rhyme.

The wind was howling, threatening wild

Slamming the shutters,

Ringing the alarm bells,

I never know what to do, little brother had started to yell

Shut the windows properly, I could tell

Mama never had to speak

She had a way with her signs and tweaks

A bolt of lightning soon struck,

Revealing a ghostly face,

Skillfully molded on the panes.

It was an embodiment of pain,

My own pain.

It was one of those nights,

When the crickets weren't nearby,

Whatever sound there was,

Was that of a lullaby.

Mother had such a beautiful voice that resonated for hours,

I wo

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ndered if she never got tired.

Underneath the fine concealer,

Were dark circles and drooping lids,

Exhaustion written all over, her pitiful eyes yearned for sleep,

The problems ran too deep far from what the eyes could discern,

Hers was an incredible story, a yarn.

So even when the sky poured out its content,

To its heart content

And the soil got all wet

Everything set for some spurting of fresh, lovely dandelions,

The sun comes out all bright

And it hurts to look in the sky,

We still aren't free from the roaring lions

That has kept our hearts sealed away in large ice cubes

Such that they have become so cold,

They aren't capable of love,

Giving or joy.

So just like the cloudy sky,

There is no perfectly fine.