‘Tis not from the sky that we hide
when frowning clouds flagellate the leaves of grass
with liquid beads,
but from ourselves, from our ignorance.
Who of us is sound enough to face
the knowledge that we are no better dry
than wet, no worse wet than dry?
It is a notion too pure to compass,
too true to absorb,
too real like light.
Better that we cringe in desperate shelters and shiver
with fear of fever.
postmoderndonkey 