Clouds are my moving treasure, free, abundant, looming br br as grey death or simply washing clean a slate of trials. br br Hush your cries, br br learn from your stolen promises; br br the sun is no longer as certain as the expected death of a window br br fly, and still your anger presides, your control is lost. br br The grey day changes your patterns and scenes. br br br br I dance, br br bringing on a thunderous clap, br br streaks in the sky charged with the power of spirits, the dead, br br back to haunt our physical plane. br br A legion of droplets scour the ground, br br and just for a moment conjure enough madness to drift away.