Float away, the rain-sea that is also the
sky.
Untethered
to anything.
Shuffled by wind.
Still, it sinks.
Lower
and lower with the pull of the million eyes that look up and hope.
Papa was discharged today and none of us were prepared for it. He is still so weak but we are on the right path of treatment, it seems. But ...
1 comment:
Alternate endings, depending on the mood:
...still it stinks
or
...still it sings
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