Clouds lower, radios crackle.
I repulse election-denying monkeys.
Clouds scissor open and close and obfuscate.
I punch the patriots crawling up Capitol walls.
Like opening curtains, I wave my hands like clouds,
expose sore-losers and our Child-in-Chief.
I cast my cares to the Divine.
My dark clouds sink into the Rotunda’s plight.
Let my body fill with light.
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Photo Credit: “Oncoming Front” by Ross Smith