equally rides this ambiguous line

This fall doesn’t come gallantly dying, rattling out last and balmy breaths, this is no Scarlett dark horse

She’s shanking birds on the squalls, sending elderly scrambling for southern comforts and amber snifters

The rain, the rain; your cold, unforgiving patter pattern of dismembering trees

Westerly, that sun goes down; idiocy can’t deny those concrete oranges, burning colder

Flipping midnight hues over frozen lakes and onto the overall imitation of our joint suspense

She’s not all that apathetic, just exhausted of fatigue for boredom’s sake

Premature night, intricately dependent on replaying tragic comedy

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