The skies of gray and black appear surreal.
With wind and rain, I feel a piercing like
a blast of arctic darts none wish to feel.
The sky will watch and wait to make its strike.

We run and push to lead a last resistance,
but fall short. He initiates the beating.
Round the track we go. Down hail comes with hints
of future welts that form from present bleeding.

The sprint to dodge the sky’s cruel wrath does not
succeed. We become victims of cold
and unforgiving scorn on flesh. His plot
erodes our efforts and before long we fold.

The force of ice does send us to the night.
How do the angry clouds contain such might?