My honeyed thoughts drip slowly,

Onto ant-laden concrete,
And are quickly procured for their queen.
 
This stormy air works it’s way into the lungs,
Thunderclaps between the ribs,
Greys and blues;
An incessant squall,
Unfettered by barometric consistency or expectations.
 
Teeth gritted tight, as a music-box rusted shut,
Muffling the melody.
We keep walking.