Acrid rain

Something in the air up here is warning me to leave, some searing incantation spoken through the winds of branches falling splintered to the muddy ground, where all my footprints fill with rain and soot to make a stone impression of my failed path.

Something of an erring dream ablated and astray, corrupted cerements alight on foul weather, seething and coercing me to chase the fevered palsy hanging vulgar in the darker folds of smoke, charred exhalations of my voice to cauterize the suffocating wounds.

Something in the rain that’s falling here is acrid and alarming, speaking underhanded whispers as it slakes the thirsty ground with boiling water. Something in my thirst tells me to take it in, turn up to the descending truth and let it burn across my skin before the torrent sweeps away, watch the tears break through polluted air and open up my eyes to contemplate the blisters that it guarantees.

Something in the darkness coils like voltage threatening to strike, and so I hold my head a little higher for the flame. Something in my dream tells me the game will be rained out.

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