My burning red raw, bloodshot eyes,
strain expectantly, under reluctant skies,
counting fingers, with tearful sighs,
longing for sunbeams, that will defiantly prys,
to open cracks in gray clouds, at sunrise.
An eye soon cries when a spirit expires,
lowering a curtain over its own demise,
knowing that gray clouds, in soft disguise,
conceal a heart, where a storm resides.
We can’t grasp, retrieve,...
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