This is a thunderstorm
of thorns and red rusty razors.
Sprinkle some heartbreak here
with a hint of my her perfume and
a dazzle of unappealing comedy.

My tummy rumbles to this melody

This is a thunderstorm.
where the winds lean slightly,
cocks its right leg to the back,
left arm stretched out; slightly.
And to the rocks that [gently] ease open
deserted hearts, it asks for the dance.

Blood in a tumble dryer.

This is a thunderstorm
Of wanderers walking beneath
its orchestra coloured in iridescent
memories and the grey absence of
a pulsating heart. Death. Dying. Died?
Who will clean this shit up
for the next act.

Streaks of yesterday.


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