Storming skies can wait upon us,
sipping slowly our merlot.
I will question every breaking.
I will break with thunder's cry.
I bleed slowly, red and raining.
Every call is slower still.
Quiet, quiet -- I am sorry:
I have yet to see the thrill.
I am alone in my fabric skin,
broken to let the toxins in.
Broken to bring the weeping out.
Burnt and peeling in the drought.
And hither comes the rain.
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