Dancing with Matches Verse 1

September breeds thick black storm clouds that linger

atop skyscrapers standing on catacombs, screaming

down on that soaked sunless desert, splattered

sprayed and showered in red sludge and cordite.

The dead tree provides no shelter from this pelting,

persistent acid rain of man.

Thunder – tastes of rotting flesh and thorn trees

boomings – marked by gaps of still silence

So loud

It thumps

The chest.

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