Like a scene from the apocalypse
Above the trees and little strips
Of outlets where the lost are led
The morning sun is dark and red
It festers in a toxic sky
Resembling a battered eye
With puffy purple clouds that look
Like bruises from a donnybrook
While in the valley where I vent
The mists maliciously prevent
That sun from helping me keep warm
As I await the coming storm.
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