Ominous

Like a scene from the apocalypse
Above the trees and little strips
Of outlets where the lost are led
The morning sun is dark and red

It festers in a toxic sky
Resembling a battered eye
With puffy purple clouds that look
Like bruises from a donnybrook

While in the valley where I vent
The mists maliciously prevent
That sun from helping me keep warm
As I await the coming storm.