They don't sing of the rain anymore
Hollow strains tease the air
Burdened with the smoke of passing generations
Where are the clouds?
Indistinct shadows where once
They were aloof and menacing
Their bite dulled
Will nothing cut anymore?
Even sadness is sensation, a flash of fire, of pain...
But this?
Grey? Is drabness the new order?
Or are we just at the fringes of the canvas?
1 comment:
The fringes of the canvas of global warming...
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