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Her Storm

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This wind blows bumps onto her skin,
screams in a way that makes her bloodshot eyes look
for a foul line.


Though the whistle
is soft, subtle, the whine she weeps
is in the comfortless clouds,
everpresent.


This wind
blows sheets of fog across her self-scraped skin
and pushes minute pods of dew
down each strand of her
silk
slippery hair,
soon to be drenched
during Earth’s emotional episode.


It commences.


This wind enhances the clouds’ migrations
like birds in a swift smooth sweep


and soon that sound of the whistle is knocked out
by the thumps of thunder up above.


And her once damp hair
has become drenched from the falling drops in her
deep, dark, disturbance.




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