of stormy skies, spread far and wide?
Do they cower in fear
of what lies within?
Or hope that its all a fever dream,
and hide their heads in their mother’s laps,
peeking between their fingergaps.
Do cavemen dream of cheery weather?
And Singing birds with flashy feathers?
Clear skies, fluffy clouds
where they could shout their truth aloud.
Or do they live just like us?
In fear of what we must become,
to live out till seventy one
and lose the will to have some fun.