I was startled to see my face at the bottom of
my mug,
eyes staring back at me as I emptied my cup-
the sky was gray overhead, and the wind whispered
a tale of storm and thunder and rain-
I could see the tempest staring back at me from
above, and from the eyes at the bottom of my cup-
how much of it had I swallowed, I wondered
bowels full of its tang-
a bird soared above, like an arrow through the trees,
free and without care below the dim of the clouds-
calm as the trees in front of me, as they waved amongst
themselves under the sigh of the breeze-
calm as the butterfly that stopped abruptly at my feet-
the wind often speaks of it-
as do the nights, without care-
the days, a hand of the clock, some random machine
powered by some unknown sun-
I was afraid to look into those eyes-
afraid of what I might see-
afraid of the tempest that they contained,
and of the thunder that they bellowed,
of the rain that lay ahead-
my thoughts escaped with the butterfly,
stowed away as a tiny speck on its wing,
and it carried me high above and into the mist of the
coming storm,
alone amongst the gray*


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