The night forgot to fade away, dolefully approached by a new day—angrily stepping in to take over its duty sans sun.
Facade morning..because if I scratch the surface, it's stil night someplace; its residue diffusing through parchment space and flexible time from lovers lane.
A veil overhead of skeletal clouds..grey emaciated shroud; a mechanic cry, acid rain song.
Bracing moisture..aqueous fog. Mosaic museum of collective raindrops, fleeting languorously, gliding hurriedly..streaking transparent water lines on my window top.
My unmade bed shabbily crowned by a crumpled blue bedspread, still warm from fickle laziness, pretending to curve the universe so our galaxies mingle, our times zones coalesce.
An enlightenment for this purposeless Tuesday..the insides are artificially lit this morning to keep the day from withering away and the outside is dismally prophetic, dreadful dull grey.
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