By , Melbourne, Australia

Silver clatter upon my golden orb,
While outside air is torn.
Calm in plush surrounds,
As icy breath is drawn.

Rivulets on waxen veins,
As pale fibres drink skin’s tears.
Brow of the horizon,
Bears wild, darkened smears.

Golden orb splutters,
As moths fall to the ground.
Among clay puddles, rotting leaves,
A bottle cap is drowned.

Symphonies upon the tin,
Dykes in weeping soil.
Fine white hairs take up their fill,
Rinsed clean is our toil.

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HereSheIsThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
Jul. 22 at 5:00 pm
I love the images and details you have, especially in the second to last stanza. It all comes together to have a dark and, well, rainstorm-y tone.
Person-No.-6,352,463,221 replied...
Aug. 20 at 4:12 am
Thanks so much! Australia is a lot more rainy than you might think.
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