When I hear thunder striking
outside my window
I know what is about to come.
So I pack my feathers
and reminisce of villages and catastrophes.
I gather up my words
and fire them
strong, strong, fast, faster.

When I smell the grassy air
I know what is about to come.
I gather up hate
and dream of voice whispering.
I gather pain, unsought,
and pour them into sunsets,
to mark my days
and burn my natures.

Because if I hear one more thunder,
I'll lose it.
I'll become sigh and meaningless glances.
I'll burn up all of my dictionaries,
and give away all of my words, for
I know what is about to come.

When it rains
All I have is unrestlessness
and the white streaks of falling water
to accompany me
through and through
trying to blow your ashes
off of my mind


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