Rain is coming.
I can smell its sweet whiff on the breeze.
A storm prowls out there
beyond my eyes power to see.
But dark clouds hunker in the fore:
the storm's vanguard.
The birds know it's coming.
They've vacated the skies
to...
I know not where.
There was a reporter named Nellie Bly:
decided she'd give the asylum a try.
'Twas just for a story.
Doctors lost all glory
when they couldn't tell a nut from a spy.
There once was a YouTube Influencer
who always ran afoul of the censor.
Her most common wrong
was stealing pop songs,
but redacting wardrobe malfunctions incensed her.
Fictional cities pile upon each other,
spreading like blood puddles
until they spill into yet others
at their amorphous edges.
And distinction is lost --
homogeneity wins --
but that lysergic sadness remains.
Put the sun at your back
and
run headlong toward the darkness.
Killing days at record speed,
leaning into the terminus,
and you wake up in the light
and
prepare for another westward run.
There once was a mischievous macaque
with a knack for invading knapsacks.
When a zipper stuck,
'twas his terrible luck
to get locked in a trunk & run out of snacks.