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she woke with the grumbles of any other winter morning in december

slid into cold clothes and messy hair

and set off and on her way into another ordinary day

but ordinary was having a civilized tea with thunder

and she found tears of overwhelming emotion and confusion

spilling from a silhouette painted into the stormy skies

of gun metal gray and knives.

the wet speckled sidewalk ran from beneath her

and she hung suspended in a story she had become quite familiar with

but had yet to read to the end.

a time of drizzle set in and all forms became blurred in the distance

leaving her to paint the faces

of strangers and mothers

fugitives and refugees

liars and lunatics

and amidst them all, she took a bow and began to dance

beneath two red umbrellas

and black crows.


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