Incandescent Preterit

I am charged like a cloud held static in the sky,
With pointed fingers cast straight down.
Spitting up but still swallowing the rhetoric,
The incandescent preterit,
Of midnight laughing,
Which, by chance,
So sweetly stolen,
Much like the crooks behind the register,
Would love to disbelieve.
Spacing out in a dense field of oxides,
How could I,
Know to carry my own weight,
If it all soups together?
I am erratic consequences,
That pull down space itself into this void,
Of inconsistency.
As if the world would bother to notice,
How my shapeless form is nearing,
The edge of light,
The dawn of symmetry.