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Sometimes the air is still;

The light loses its clarity.

This is such a day: immovable.

It slouches; it is lazy and petulant,

And ripe with indifference.

Today it calls and calls.

We are veined wet fallen leaves;

We are rills of loss and regret

And we can not explain:

It is a sense of loss,

Of not belonging, of never –

Of being the outsider. Looking in.

Walks offer no cure, nor kind wishes:

It is set deep, beyond the eyes,

And it has learned to burrow.

Sometimes when the rain comes,

It washes in joy and laughter;

Sometimes it builds a slurry,

And it clings to thought and life.

To pull us ever further

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