From The Onion:
According to a growing consensus of U.S. poets, shadows—inky sharp as a raven's beak—meet the sullen bloat of clouds, their hues a pallid loam, each a dancer, each alone, like dusty charcoal on an ashen brow.
Citing both the ageless gloom of morning and a weary sun, its astral luminescence wrapped in arid gauze, the nation's poets told reporters this week that doubt lingers in the frail minutes of a young dawn, adding that said doubt was a heathen doubt—a father's doubt—untouched by faith.
Multiple verse-writing sources also confirmed vapors, milky white vapors of shallow breath from a child's lips.
“I take the cloth of fog, I drape it over—gently, like a midwife—the memory of one broken holy Friday,” poet K. Martin Echols said during a press conference Tuesday. “Hallowed be regret, and hallowed be my hands across the table where we ate, where we wept, where we fought the laws of bliss like lovers.”
“For what is the sound of hope? For what is the mind's moment of fulfillment?” added poet Willow Marks. “For what is—?”
Coming just weeks after U.S. poets announced that poplar leaves, heavy with the dread of autumn's looming song, danced in trembling half-step—one two one two—an overwhelming majority of verse writers affirmed to reporters Tuesday that Michael /Michael / there is a quickness in the dreaming of the bird, Michael / the bird that plucked your silver ring from the moss and kept it bright through passing storms.