Limbo, Limba

July 28, 2012
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A Black Cloud addresses me,
with flowing tears and a sharp tongue.
He wants me to leave,
I do not belong between the trees and the shed.
My cigarette is damp, it's stopped breathing,
and soon I will too.
Consumed by the gloops of his cold spit,
he pursues me and enters into my skin,
soaking in my heat, dense and dry.
I need air, but the path has made cracks,
my feet aren't big enough to fight them.
I want to be a worm, squirming through life,
each cut will not kill them.
I want to be half.
The birds are overdue, swarms to sting the noise,
morning never comes here.
Grey, grey my ash is flying, it disturbs the sky.
They like it, something more than me.
Yet I stick to the mud, I am now soaked.
My name is grey and I am a cloud, white with blue.

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