Thunderclap.

This heart, a beat full on vacancy
has warmth stuck in fissure;
the hardest thing for me to do.

This intention, an atom pledged
a curtain shy of helplessness;
the silliest thing for me to do.

This moment, a metaphor made of leaves
is bearing down on me
the firmest thing for me to do.

But these hands, their diffidence
in defiance to lavish attempt,
are scrambling uneasy since weeks;
untethered to make amend
with troubled verses that scream
rhymes, assorted tentatively.

Maybe therefore,
those curtains are drawn apart,
impaired by
flickering sunshine
that baked coquetry;
for this pixiliated heart's undeserving,
an absurd
Sunday afternoon
astounded by poetry.