Perfect Storm

Too many hands
are turning my clock,
Too many sands
are drifting amok.

My sky became dark,
my insight was weathered.
My conscious took flight
and sought to untether.

A great cloud appeared,
silent at first...
it grew a vast hunger,
it drew from my thirst.

Then came the downpour,
the virulent storms,
my rain finding rest
in meandering forms.

Just as it ended
my tears found emotion,
my time became function,
my sky became ocean.