Rains threaten to descend
at odd hours.
There's more spark to white lights
across drowning skies.
Sometimes they blink and bleed
Like red eyes
gazing at their spots of crime.
Have flights been ever easy?
Let's hum around shallow corners
along long corridors
feeling the moist dirt under that cracked skin.
Let's droop and swoon
for retreat
Let's fumble and dream
and stare at the old Hill
Till the phantom speaks up
in Armaic, listening to your soul and its woe
as it finally breathes
coughs and cowers.
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