Overcast

By Tobias Bjørkli via Pexels

Without loitering rain, we would be lost to its foreign soprano for
without glowering clouds, the sun is a stunt
without novelty, turned ordinary
without the contradiction of storms
without mercy, who trickle ink
without hesitance, like some terror beast of the sea
without qualms of existence or grasp of a self
without cold, stealing doubt, sealing truths in tentacles
without slack in their grip, taut as a whip,
without hesitance as they drag a hull down under.
Without downpour splatter to draw grimace
without joy, we would be lost to the balm that is morning
without fog as it glows through the streets
without malice, ill will or hazy intention, intending to do right
without ripe of reward. We would be lost,
without losing.