the silence in
your voice
is like a storm
in the cold.
when it thunders
the sky renders
a fidgeted cloud
wanting  to rowd
away to a bout.
it moves random
looking to stardom
wishing the rain
would fall.
and when it does
the calm
traps
any remaining  of the stabs
the weather
had dabbed.
the return of the sound
a musical
found
is perfect to  accompany the mind.
when you open up
and say
it is proud
all the things you 'lowed.

when your days
are numbered
you keep to a standard
you like everything you
did not
and you get back what you
hadn't
imagination fathom
time ticks crucial
it does not let you
you down
it focuses until
you rowd
you  give up
you  had a bout

but when your days
are prelimenary
you carelessly
tick
list
intentions
to a miss
unknowing
is your forte
to unrest
everything seems
less
not enough
time slowly slips
to dictation
it strips
and you grip
going back
is a dip
you are not ready
to nip.

above a cloud
there sails a loud
it's happy it is
not about
it likes to have
its way allowed
so of it goes
to never lowers,
sunshine may doze
but sky is froze
to such a rowd
nothing does bowed
then to send it
out
to where it's nought.