Nature’s Wig in Labor

A god’s wig turned pitch black
Becoming bloated with a tumultuous future
Storm clouds increased
Concentrating for the common good

“Let the future be born,” someone said
So the wig dumped a load of lightning onto the world
And hail
The wind had realized it had fallen asleep at the wheel
At best, the next few hours were uncertain

Another being could hear the words from
Across a growing river
He was wearing a leather vest, not much else
He brought it tighter around him
Wondering when the storm would increase
That meant failure and a good sleep

The wig finally gave birth
Dropping a dark little ball
Into the middle of the sky

The river grew its madness
Forcing the leather vest
To become a pair of wings


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