Over the Slate and Spires

The blossom of the trees passed my window today,
looked like snow in spring.

I look out past the weather's ironic display,
over the slate and spires.
If those patches of blue between the clouds
are what some say they are,
why don't I see anybody waiting with open arms?

The present is just simple wastes of static, but
the future carries it's kinetic power;
power of possibilities with pockets full of maybes,
then it simmering into static.
Disappointment dribbles down our naive faces.

If somebody's there, waiting somewhere
over the slate and spires,
tell them I've simmered, my power's expired
I'm scratching in the dirt instead.