Anticipated Thunder

Pieces of non-color collect in the above. Non-color grey white black, that make no sense. Because those colors do not belong.
In this sky.

Spewn above, hues of dust and shadow, suspended in blank expectation.
Never wish upon
That.
 
It gathers, together, the colors do not belong. 

It musters, together, gloom of cloud and static.

And stick. And stay.

It gathers, takes over. Bawdily blue. 

Where did his clarity go?

Hearkening from green grassy hills or trees in the mountains, he has summoned the smell. 
Even though absent from the great above.

Inhaled the atmosphere, and he named it wet.

When it is not. 
Yet.

It makes sense to anyone, who's felt this non-color. Loitering above. Clogging the clarity. 
It makes perfect sense, that he expects something.

But this blank non-scent curtain
 can only can remind. 

It is not yet the thing. 
Never here. Even now.

Smoke and pale and filth and ink. 

Lying her vapors
Lying her substance
Lying her purpose

She’s looks like clouds, 
feigning the rain.
He dwells below, 
observing the signs.

What is the purpose?

Brace yourself. 

Nothing is coming.

His every hazed moment
Builds a void anticipation

But burns all the flowers
Without any thunder.