Before Rain in July - chapter 2

Does the sky ever ask the land,
will you let me rain over you?
Have you prepared for my torrent?

It simply breaks open its arms
and pours forth it's grief in
large, splotchy drops,
nonchalantly, almost unapologetic
to both parched and wet earth.

Why did you think I will reign myself in?
Why did you think I must seek your permission to love or hate you?
I will not.

My clouds are burdened with the grief I have hemmed in,
accumulated across heartbreaks in rainstorms.
They cannot hold much longer.

Beware, a storm approaches.
The sky has spoken.
There is only one way this ends.

Before Rain in July

The cotton-wool clouds above seem oblivious to my dissonance.
It should have been a beautiful day.
The azure sky remains etherized with neglect and longing.

The apricot Sun above is parched, almost withered as the salted land it illuminates grudgingly.
It is too bright, too bright for comfort.

O how I long for the comfort of the pale blue moonlight
on the thorny thistle bush,
weeping with the dew for another night with you.

But the apricot Sun is desiccated, almost decimated
as my saltwept hopes
 and those rainswept thistle flowers,
for which it is too bright, too bright for comfort.

The cotton-wool clouds above seem to patronize my discordance.
It should have been a beautiful day.