Poem

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 The clouds are rolling in, 

Can you taste it; the toxicity? 

Can you feel the tremors that often caress your skin? 

There’s something like the taste of the devil on your tongue, 

The hue of the golden orb still stuck in the sky, 

You speak like the olden natives of the far South, 

The spirits, as they fly, wave to us, 

We wave back; the tears of the afterlife in our eyes,