Acrid smelling Laundry day. All the women Delegate The crafty swiftness Of the Fold.
Sunlight pouring down On you, Flooding through And soaking You. Hurricanes a holiday From the sweat Across your chest.
Someday maybe Come to you. Someday heaven Will come too. From the coma they Comply to all suggestions That are lies.
Sieve through this fine Tea with gold. Find the silver That corrodes.
Temper tantrums Left the red The jelly crust Across your head.
Contingents of Common place Calling us the empty Core of the human race they see Crumbling towers and Crude debris.
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Spring is coming |