Pure Dripping Pure
Your rain drip,
Did you not think they'd notice?
The pure consistency of it failed to illude
The salt-screwed-face of the foam-mouthed ocean.
I suppose they told you
To pull yourself together - that's complex
For a cloud. They'll go back
On that with the tide
Anyway; they'll be blowing
Through you, slicing
You with their high-flying
Wings, glorying in
Your passive vapour. It ruins
And sunk yet you will never
Be a pernicious miasma in return.
Perhaps if you could, you wouldn't have to
Wind up spilling yourself
In bloody tears.
But no, you die and the soil saturates
Itself in your remains, siphoning out
Anything it can
To pretty its petals.
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