From its box of cloud
the lightning howled
to find the trap
of the fool's grey walls,
crack'd them with a fitful fire,
rocked the cradle hard and higher.
Wild, wild, it played within
the morephemes of his box of skin;
burning hot as rain was cold,
too bright to lose, too quick to hold;
til, sun-collapsed and blue air-bled,
it left him with a pen instead.
for Brendan's Fools
(a tongue in cheek take for the theme of April's 30/30)
Images: Untitled, © Zdizlaw Beksinski Fair use via wikiart.org