Like paint, spilled in one big gush,
then slowly widening out and dripping,
sliding, gliding, down the surface as it dries.
Like a stain, it starts out small,
then grows, as fingers prod and
smudge – they work to remove it, but
all they do is expand it,
deepening the stain.
It sinks into the fibers, grabbing at
each piece to take it to the next.
Each move is a leap of one tiny centimeter
at a time.
And centimeter upon centimeter, it grows;
voracious in nature, the stain is always growing.
It is a thundercloud. Grey, white, and
black, it rumbles. The water cascades
from it, descending upon us.
Copyright 2014 T. L. Kels