the sky was having
an argument of sorts
the sun was not backing off
night made it known
that it was its turn
and announced it
the stratosphere flickered
like fluorescence gone awry
the sky blinked, then
an electric pitchfork
arced like a parabola
of a slashing katana
the white hot streak
cracking the porcelain skin
of the retreating sky
the troubled air
hissing with the urgency
of an incoming shell
as the rain clouds rolled in
like a cavalry charge
in demented flight
swollen with rain
tumbling over rooftops
TV antennas
sending blackbirds
screaming for shelter
then the sky
turned a darker shade
of rusty grey
with a mean streak
of crimson
slashed across
its face.
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