Spilled Paint

The ominnous crack of the sky splitting in two
A leak of inky purple paint explodes
The harsh clap, and as an afterthought
A little rumble, a boom conveys the grumble
Of the brewing storm...
The brewing storm like a witch with an enchanted spatula
Stirring up a gurgling potion of crashing
Thunder---Thunder that ripples through the ether
Knocking down or building up
Merry sunny days for the better or for the
Worse, whether or not this weather
Is an opportunity to frolic and laugh
And splash in puddles
Or frown and weep and feel very down,
Its constant vibrations of crackling
Never seem to cease in there puffy
Haze of slishing and sloshing tears
Of the sky while its bangs and booms just test us
On whether we will unblinkingly,
Unfalteringly hold the realization,
The revelation
That the sky is only having a rough day.
That the clouds spilled their purpley-blue paint
Like a bruise, a bruise that will soon fade away
By day.
This storm of rattles and clatters and rumbles
Too shall pass but in the meantime
Why not enjoy the mystic puffs of periwinkle
And their majestic streaks of light.