Yesterday noon
Before I took my last collegiate breath, I turned to Death, and he described to me the sky:
The sun is retiring. The sky turns into a dark gray with blotches of silvery cream haphazardly smeared over the expanse. The clouds are sailing like the failed smoke rings in slow-mo.
Darkness eagerly embraces our shoulders.
* * *
A heavy humid air hangs over your heads;
it is a burden:
a foreboding of your fickle future.
* * *
The sun is retiring. The sky turns into a dark gray with blotches of silvery cream haphazardly smeared over the expanse. The clouds are sailing like the failed smoke rings in slow-mo.
Darkness eagerly embraces our shoulders.
* * *
A heavy humid air hangs over your heads;
it is a burden:
a foreboding of your fickle future.
* * *