Familiar scents of a coming storm;
The grey and rain pass time away.
In our solace do we drown
For affectation of our moods.
I wait and blink and think
How poetic it is, indeed
That we relate ourselves to the type of day
And let deeper intentions breed;
Can we say we get our way
By looking high to sleeping skies?
Thoughts and prayers go unanswered, yet
Do we know to laugh or cry?