Hemorrhaging clouds pour out their flood
On the burdened canvas below,
An abstract art of dripping blood:
A cloudy-skied Van Gogh,
A fingerpaint with clay and mud,
A man? A moral? A woe?
As moisture slips beneath the wood
To basements of the soul
Where damp doubts don the devil’s hood
And drink beguilers’ Bordeaux;
Wet thoughts all shivering where they stood,
Can even this be good?
Written as a parallel poem to viewingcamelot’s Chance of Rain.