The fourth floor window reveals nothing
Save for a jagged row of apartment buildings,
The mist that precedes the rain,
And, of course, a blank slate sky
Obscured by the built-up layers of dust
And debris that cake the window,
Spreading like mold from the cracks
And blooming in the corners
As the world falls to pieces
In the pouring rain that cannot hope
To wash away the sins I have committed
In this place.


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A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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