Petrichor, the after-scent of
The tempests I deplore,
And yet it's more:

Promises of life anew,
I feel it rinses
Out the death, and since

I can't find anything really
Wrong -- bear in mind
I've tried -- it's kind

Of heartening to know that bad comes good,
Yet, still, startling
That it should be after the darkening

Of sky and soul, though my views
Are solely sole,
And fragmented; on the whole...

You could say that I accept it,
But don't essay
To liken that to rain - I shan't be swayed

To lust after torrents and downpours:
I find storms abhorrent;
There's nothing more to know or warrant.

And yet...
The petrichor.

The End

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