weatherman
come forth, dont shout
a weatherman you shall be known about
whose cries tears open the great mist womb of the sky
to whom does he rely?
in youth you bathe upon the sun
in eleventeens the blooms and blossoms run
then it forms, your quartz of life
soon came adolescence of cold white crystals
burying your feet tethering you to ground
in one's desire to bleed out dry
he speaks of odd worms and butterflies
he muses on odd words, fortified
before you know it you are forty five
do not bother, do not pry
you shall meet the weatherman
when your quartz meets its end of line
till then
i hope you made the most of your life