Tracing the wind current
with my pinkie finger licked
drenched.. soaked ..
amidst the heavens heaved torrents
standing.. staring..
at the murk pouring
spinning skies grey
pink and musty
smelling of dry dust
that frames the painting
if you can't see
it seals the salivating
for the sunshine in waiting
in the waning dusk
wading in thoughts
of lush clouds crushed
steeped in that blue lust
perplexed by the luck of wet brows
and rain drop bumps.
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