there is something magical in an overcast day where the sun stares down with a corona of malaise through the misty skies

when the words flow like sweet nectar across the honeyed sick of anxiety and woes

a time of insipid prose that coats the inside of the manic skull while tapping out meteoric metaphors to wipe out all of creationistic disbelief

the birds sing of seed and solace

as the angry people spit angry words through anus-like mouths onto any that dare cross their vitriol soaked damnation

there is something magical to it all even if it is darkly tinted with subtle threats

nuanced by misunderstanding

and laid bare across the early morning haze