The world is grey with millions of white shards that bicker with the wind. The world dances piece by piece down from heaven to earth and then back again. And I can see why it might do that.
Every tiny particle of itself running from the others. Floating on the whisper of what they once were. Falling now, because now there's nothing to hold.
It's just the weather.
The one true God.
Knocking on my door again. With a soft, white fist. Painting the windows grey with its hungry eyes. And everything I see through them.
It's just the weather.
Saving every one of my footprints. As I stumble through up to my knees in it.
Out there or inside myself.
It's still just the weather.
You can't predict it.
Sunday
2/12/2006 10:24:00 PM
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