When water dies
of terrible heat
in gray clouds
it rains in LB.
The dead pour
in brisk drizzles
and the wind
whispers a prayer.
Touching mud
their souls flutter
as brown bugs into
the last string of sunlight.
When water dies
of terrible heat
in gray clouds
it rains in LB.
The dead pour
in brisk drizzles
and the wind
whispers a prayer.
Touching mud
their souls flutter
as brown bugs into
the last string of sunlight.