Squatting careless on the branches, swaying;
Darker blobs against a pale, dull sky, that's
Only beautiful when it's not weighing
Down on your imagination, squashing
Hope.
If you pretend it's watered silk, or crepe
Intended for a dress cut on the cross,
Which bias cut will always sweetly drape,
Then this might compensate the loss
Of cobalt, beryl, and cerulean,
Adorned with cirrus swirls or mackerel shoals,
Above this plain so plainly ging gang Goolian,
Which on such days can seem to fill the souls
Of those of us who walk upon its ground,
With a mad happiness, which we absorb
Through pores within the skin, as all around
Is sky and light; the sun (it has to be an orb)
Is never really hidden from our view,
There is no hill to hide it, only cloud.
But then come days like this, there is no blue,
And we must suffer long and cry aloud,
Unless we use our strange imaginations,
Or focus all our thoughts internally,
And this is why it seems such compensations
As expressing these ideas long windedly,
Are so very beneficial, for you see,
They help to cure the pain of being me.
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