Overcast
If clouds would gather
after every poet speaks,
we'd have no more need
for dim, neon-tinged bars.
We'd be our own prophets
or harbingers of bad weather.
A storm is coming, we'd say,
not knowing why we're right.
Love poems would remind us
of our first funerals, the sky
finally polite enough to wear
colors fitting for the day.
Were our words to stain skies,
our craft would grow lazy,
not even needing the truth
to scratch nature's eyes.
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