in the time of science fiction

my heart's not in a song
when the wind blows the clouds away
and the color of the sky is
different than i remember before the sky was covered
but not a drop fell down from the threat of a storm
it all turned to vapor
from memory of sun rising from the ground
so i've drawn the shades
keeping company with my coffee cup
and my stomach doesn't want to stay
but turns the other way in a small rebellion
toward my inability to change for my own benefit
***
now i become aware of the words i'm writing
as i try to march march march inevitably on to metaphorical
conclusions with enough transparency to be
understood but vague enough to be considered mysterious

so i question to whom i am writing
i question audience
i wonder to whom i make an attempt
to impress
what is the need of eloquence unless it flows naturally
like honey from the moon
so i know that honey doesn't fall from the moon
so what is the need to say it that way
and my answer lies wholly in this

though

my heart is not in a song
but the day is widening
the curtains may be drawn
i may be idling but be it caffeine
or otherwise
i am curious about how the sky can change colors
while under the cover of the clouds
so i think about science and i think about the
changes brought on by observation
i think about the unavoidable corruptibility of the objective
i try to examine truth
my eyes will change the color of the sky
and the imperfection of language will zenith
as i am unable to construct anything more
than a symbol