The glumness follows your weather
patterns after your fogged brain—
self-inflicted like the haze you used
to escape into the nether parts of sunshine,
as if cheering lights could ever help.
They’re nothing like you expected
when you slipped your mother’s womb.
You’d wring hope out of the clouds
if that could bring the caring back
before the unspoken anger claps the hands
of storms that silence the parting light
with the moldering flash. . .
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