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Rated: E · Poetry · Environment · #1771192
A poem that came to me while standing outside in the rain one night.
Dripping Pages

Mists of rain
beat the sun
to work this morning.
Without this rain,
dark,
it’s truly boring.

Outside I stand,
sopping wet.
My thoughts are restless.
Dripping pages;
damp,
and nothing changes.

Breezes blow
just below;
the world is silent.
My eyes, the sky;
dark;
yet both are glowing.

This cigarette;
a casualty,
is stale and dying.
Reach for another
but,
there are none dry.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1771192-Dripping-Pages