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Thursday, October 23, 2014


This dry spell had stayed around too long,
Despite the faded billboard signs of
Sinners Repent and Pray for Rain.
Still not a drop dropped into sight.

A sinner herself, or so they said,
Even with all her efforts to belong.
She lit her candles, murmured her own prayers,
And waited for the promise of night.

Deep in the woods, in her domain,
Black cloak revealed pale, skyclad skin.
Likeminded trees looked on with arms outstretched,
Watching her dance in the soft moonlight.
The sky grew cloudy; the wind grew strong.
Wildly spun every weather vane.

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