stochastic

It’s those days when you expect the world will change
& you’re shattered on the fritz.

No warning, just storming,
Your once optimism took and left.
This silence isn’t a fuming of growing angers red,
Moreover, gray cloud cover to blanket what’s been cleft.
And the tarnished wound of how you’d hoped to see the days,
Too familiar with its bruising haze of moments rendered spent.

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