The dark cloud presses down,

Its weight oppressive, surrounding.

Edges roiling, churning, swirling about,

Coming and going in wisps and gusts,

Yet never pulling free of the dense interior.

Thunder attempts to build its power, its roar.

The pressure rises, but cannot erupt.

A slow leak, like a balloon, days after the party has ended.

This cloud above, tethered below, moves as a shadow,

Invading the space around it, carelessly, clumsily.

It bumps into the bright, white cloud that inhabits the same sky.

And where dark cloud would merely groan were it encroached,

The white cloud flashes to black with violent lances of lightning.

For the white cloud cannot abide the dark cloud and its leaking thunder.

And would erase it from its sky if it could.

Lightning arcs across and through the dark cloud,

But it does not consume or dissipate it, it expands it,

Increasing its inner density and accelerating the rolling edges.

The cloud lumbers on, carrying hopeless desire to never cause the lightning again.

The cloud is not without its enemies, however.

Joyful rays of brilliant sun pierce its form,

Though merely as pinholes through the opaque veil.

Unable to burn away en masse.

Pinholes however, yield focused clarity,

Filtering all that distracts from the peripheral,

And narrows vision to the radiance that resides above the cloud.

A glimpse into the sky of possibility, of hope, of dreams.

The piercing pins are what keep the cloud afloat,

For were the pins to stop piercing, or the cloud become impervious,

It would crash to the ground, and cease to be.

It cannot cease to be, for the sky would be torn apart.

The dark cloud must be lightened, in color and in weight.

It must seek the pinprick rays of light, absorb them, become them.

It must not bump into white cloud or feel the lash of its lightning.

Dark cloud must release its building, thunderous pressure.

Dark cloud knows this, dark cloud has its purpose,