despite shirts clung to skin
and lightning clanging metal floors
and the brute falling of it all,
the sky has never felt brighter.
the milky way drops of sweet
mouthfuls of rain, turning purple
and cascading like summer bells.
i couldn't cry if i wanted to.
and even when we are warm clothed
again, there is nothing left thinking about
except for the vicious eye we're standing in,
where no wrong is right, no right wrong,
and though we wait for the angel of our swan song,
while the days are still young, so are we.
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