Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Storm clouds

sweep down from the mountain

scraping the manic dregs of life

from the slopes and valleys before

turning heavenward

only the blind can see, in static blue and

grey; strife threatens the fortune soul

if such things could be captured

in raindrops and spun into notes,

such an anxious symphony as has

never before been heard would ring out,

like trumpet before

Jericho