Whimperings of a Mistaken Man

Beneath a grey and tumultuous sky
the bitter wind whipped
my tattered raiment
sharply against my skin.
I shivered,
bearing the frightful storm 
that had come upon me
suddenly, unexpectedly,
growing and collecting itself
silently and deliberately
until it raged about me
fierce
as a mad zealot's prophecy.
The thunder burst 
and the lightning struck
and the rain poured down
ceaselessly.
Finding no shelter,
no refuge
from the torment 
of this hideous inclemency,
I cried out,
directing my anger 
at the agency responsible 
for my cresting dismay
and at all things.
I condemned that person
who had sewn my onerous garment
and the howling wind
giving life to these shreds
that licked and punished me.
I cried out, 
until the storm would hear me no more,
and I collapsed 
in shame and pity
for my weakness.
I lay on the ground, 
miserable and rain-soaked,
depleted and pathetic, 
capitulating
to the rain that pummeled me
and the night that smothered me
and the cold that pierced me
and the frailties of my body
that defeated me.
To the loathesome stars,
that I knew played and laughed
above the clouds,
also I surrendered 
because they were jolly,
and their brightness would sting my eyes
that had become so accustomed
to the despicable gloom.
Mud seeped into the corners of my mouth
and sobbing tears rolled down my face
until the storm,
relentless,
blanketed me,
dressed me in its clouds.
Numbed,
I slept
surrounded by comatose charlatans,
the walking dead, 
living zombies
who masquerade as humanity.

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