The rain hammers in my thoughts
And cut-grass irony;
It used to be so very fragrant,
Already the smell is drenched sour.
A blocked driveway highlights
My ponderings: is it yours?
The iron machine of a harsh
Inclination, which rouses me
From views to thoughtful trains.
They are always the same. Those zooming,
Broken ideas and rotten colour -
The dark of cars, bruised and burnt -
Perplex the inside of my arbitrary visions.
Believing promises as if written,
I have no evidence to counter
One present arrival, one glimpse
Of a faded figure:
And one plus one equals two
Claims my initial decision.
I can’t hear through the pounding
Rain that takes my conclusions
Into the fickle air, all non-directions.
It used to be so sweet and nice;
All that curls with the leaves is bitterness.

The End

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