Pregnant rain cloud, dark
and sleepy. Lightning racing
through it's fleecy veins.

It cries. It is confused,
and much too full.

All of this power; blessings
and shatterings alike,
and it is stuck. Wind holds
its release at bay
painfully.

"How cruel," it mumbles,
searching for a way out of
this hellish stagnant excess.
The wind is merciless, however,
and blocks any backward escape.

"How cruel."


An: My default mode of being is a large, puffy, expressive cloud. An implication of rain, but nowhere near an inevitability. I am now cramped, and sad.