It’s fitting that

 

despite the cerulean sky sifting through the forests,

and the trees clutching their last signs of youth, denying Mother Nature in shades of viridescent vitality,

and despite the summer songs sifting through car windows,

 

the rain bites back in crafted contrast.

 

Wednesdays must be poison,

I presume,

that ravishes the sky of any joys and

juvenescent blooms.

 

Or maybe it’s the date,

a singular 9, the far-away 30, the doom of 2020,

bringing a decree of calamity as if the weather and day correlate

in some sickeningly wry way, if any.

 

And maybe it’s me,

if no other reason sounds true in the hollow words on screen,

that jaded the sky and the winded trees and summer signs far from their glee

as if to say that I won’t make it to 18.

 

I feel the sky’s ancient acrimony,

the thundering claps of furor that seemingly coincide with my new age,

as I feel myself coming to terms with its sanctimony.

 

Because how could the omniscient eyes up high,

obscured by Neptunes of nebulous clouds yet nefariously all-knowing,

be wrong when it sees through the lies?

 

Something must be off,

the day, the date—

me.

 

Something must be conjuring the stormy sobs outside

and the ones within I’ve learned to hide.