Between Reformation Is it serious or cirrus? To laugh at tornadoes? Like I was born to Or shelter from the storm? As I seem to..... Above this realm The wisp to air Turned curling grace.... Or locked in basements With sodden thought And brooding senses Is it neither or both? All at once? The lies the living tell the dead? I hold that answer less these days But in defense..... I am a weatherman And that is all I know
joyceanne
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MilesNowhere
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