A rolling clap of thunder,
the soft patter of rain on a window.
Not a cover to go under,
in the open like a broken bird.
Shadows dance about,
laughing with a meloncholy song.
Wonder along on foot, beyond doubt,
nothing will come, nothing will save.
A little whispering dove,
in sight just at the moment of defeat.
Leading down the hills to a tight grove,
celebrate the true of getting away.
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