the clouds execute orchestrations
of their own devising
upon my ill-tempered window frame
which moans under the crescendos of
a percussive etude
the runny glass is cool against
my fevered forehead--
full of greys and monochromatic studies.
my hand falls--
leaving a regretful trail behind it.
a harsh exhale solidifies upon the glass
in tiny quivering beads,
a thousand tiny mirrors--
shutting my heavy lids,
the murmurs grow louder outside
and fill my ears;
i am a
conch brimming with ocean.