Heavy and smudged sky,

and drops on the window.

My brain pulses,

and my heart swells.

 

It weighs down on the space between 

morals and the vices of feeling.

 

They always have the blinds 

at attention.

I wonder if the tress are swaying,

or if you can smell the moisture.

 

It all adds up,

the pieces fit.

Yet the solution is wrong

and the image jumbled.

 

I see the picture,

but the fragments won't match.

 

I hope the air has warmth,

the energy of fresh wind.

That rattles my tired lungs.

 

Instead I shiver,

and my eyes cry

without tears.

 

I wish for the air to hang, 

and only be shuffled,

by wind and birds' wings.

 

I want to breathe warm air.

I want to catch clouds 

on my hands.

 

To be sheltered under a canopy.

Rejuvenated by the sound and smell.

 

But the Earth leans away

from our science class light bulb.