Procella weeps

Tangled are the clinging vines of solitude,  
plaited thoughts flourished  
among insipid blacks and whites.  
But in an extraordinary stillness, she  
unfolds.  
 
A settling wind is quiet rapture:  
a whispered sigh, a shaded breath,  
swollen behind the eyes  
of a wounded rain cloud.  
 
In a pathless wood lit by secrets,  
she grows wild among the thorns and thistles,  
and in the lap of gods she has no name.  
Beyond aspen bows and timber song, she is.  
 
Shattered kisses: I taste them on my skin.  
Each drop is a bittersweet lullaby,  
a forgotten line. Forgotten for a reason.  
Yet, I miss them just the same.  
 
I'll always miss them when it rains.  
 
And though I will never touch the sun,  
as procella weeps, I am the sky.