Dourwind
Moving too slow and so,
the sick air can catch me.
Greased cans of madness,
tumble from my heap.
This tread ruts on concrete,
as holed boots grind teeth.
Your dour wind drool caressed,
a bruised winter wool cheek.
Your whirlwind of desiccated shame,
has love’s trash hung on my name.
EaS
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