Dripping with Irony

It keeps falling, relentlessly.
I was watching the rain the other day, watching longingly as it beat down tirelessly onto the midnight asphalt. What order is this? A torrent of chaos eerily captivating, but of what means? The build up of these tiny cosmos within cosmos, a satellite of satellites revolving in eerie uniformity seemed to unfold and develop unerringly. The blueprint of the master plan had seemed unfathomable, but it was inevitable.

Every so often, a tiny sliver of reality converges into a miniature atomic bomb, threatening to detonate. It develops a subtle and obtuse resonance, probing and preparing to attack any vulnerability. Shake it off, and you might wonder if it was just a bad dream. Mayhap nothing more than a brush with the grim reminder of today’s gray monotony. Yet it lies imperceptible, waiting for the right moment to emerge, ready to command it’s army of resilient and silent soldiers to wreak upon the worst kind of damage.

The cold and despairing clutches of our very own actions.
Irreversible and irreparable.

Welcome to the shroud.