A Mind-Stewing Situation

He felt something
stewing in the mind station.
Stewing unusually, an airy feeling
with a chubby destination.
Then, a fear peppered his soul and
he saw the light of lights switch.
Which he took an honour to, though,
and clawed the petal remnant.
His fingertips, sweating unendingly,
slipped patently off the round table.
The biting of the nails began,
red herrings flew, cried and
Disappeared into Monday's
sweet malevolence.

Pray the clouds seek not a tragedy
but an assurance of resuscitation.
Pray the clouds, he sang, pray the clouds.