Gray Day

Some Prose on Smoke and Fog

My dragon breath sounds like a long who

as the gray and white swirls of smoke flow outward.

The day is bombarded with fog and blocked light

as if the sun just gave up the fight.

Tires swish by on misty pavements -

Some engines are more abrasive than others,

while the various birds chirp from the tree tops.

It is dischord and there is no drum beat

except for the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard,

which keep no time, but allow my thoughts and senses

to be service for my humanity as I share this moment.

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Gray Day
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