The clouds in the mirror looked fake,
pixellated to the point of near smog,
thick unrelenting blankets of tear gas
that choked the endorphins of the sky,
and lonesome rain did make.
I couldn't help but notice her nighttime tan,
which stuck out like poets on driveways,
dizzying the loose inspired mind until
sticky eyes closed until the next day,
waking up an attached sort of man.
Nothing seems to ever work out.
All my doors have been long shut,
all my poor dreams end in reality,
my keys have all been dulled to null.
The sky is rank with clouds of doubt.
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