there is a space of darkened clouds
that lighten not with lightning strikes
where days are reconsidered
in such twisted ways
to appear so straightened there
from destructive lie or taunt, beware.
Nestle close to The Cabinet, dear,
It and the space around
breathes clear and pure and true.
A break from storms, that scream and whisper,
untwisting twisting voices of the mist misleading.
That is what It’s heeding.