A Stormy Soliloquy

The dead of night thieves verses from my mind;
I wonder If I will recapture them;  
The stormy sky's soliloquy's inclined  
To squash my sexless stanzas and my phlegm;  
  
Lightning must burn my least exquisite cant,  
Destroying lust free synonyms to score    
The page where rhythm fails, while the harsh slant  
Of pitch-black rain drowns each weak metaphor;  
   
Tenebrous abstinence, moon-bowed, soon strips  
Flaky erotica and precious art,    
Of beauty, as despondency just flips  
My fucked-up dreams deep into murk; I start  
To tear the rancid remnants, quite bereft  
Of fragile, eclipsed nothings after theft.