The Tempest

The wind picks up

eddies of dead leaves


like a dog chasing its tail

a static change in the air

pressure pockets the world

is different


entering a new dimension

a hollow world stamped down on top of the existing one

traced over in black ink

a storm’s being summoned

and set about

flung into the future

hours away

bringing the old world and old molecules

pressing salvation through a sieve

of cloud

little needle shapes emerge

stitching together

a thin sheet

to wash over our sins.

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