A storm is brewing,
Despite clear blue skies.
Black clouds formed,
Of gray cigarette smoke
Gather swiftly together.
Hidden within lie other matters,
Matters that many can't see.
The storm is growing.
Sense the blackness,
The darkness in my mind.
It is coming.
What will it leave behind?

12/20/2004

Posted on 12/21/2004
Copyright © 2024 Tota Longmire